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Bertha Layoodrt 


a NOVEL. 



EDGAR C. BLUM. 




PHILADELPHIA : 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 

1889 . 


Copyright, 1889, by Edgar C. Blum. 



TO THE 

HON. WM. P. BLACK, 

THE AUTHOR DEDICATES THIS BOOK, 

IN TOKEN OP HIS RESPECT AND ESTEEM FOR A 
NOBLE FRIEND. 



4 



BERTHA LAYCOTTRT. 


CHAPTER I. 

Near the west bank of the Hudson River is situated 

the pretty little village of C , the scene of events 

yielding origin to this tale. On the east side of the 
river extends a long stretch of land, its surface level for 
a distance, again undulating, forming many shadeless 
dells and glens. On the west towers a range of hills, 
attaining, by a gradual incline, a mountainous height ; 
and interminable valleys, begirt with stately trees, af- 
ford a refuge impervious to obtrusive rays. From an 
eminence, whose summit dwells in apparent solitude 
among the clouds, project huge boulders, reposing in 
the majesty of reserved power. Upon a hill of less pre- 
tension are situated two parallel rows of trees, of uni- 
form height and rare symmetry. Shaded upon the 
front by this regal cluster there stands a white cottage, 
relying for attractiveness upon its own cosey appear- 
ance as much as on its picturesque surroundings. The 
good taste of the inmates, betokened by the exterior, is 
evidenced no less by the interior appointments. No 
sign of gaudiness or wealth is visible; but the small 
apartments bear an appearance of extreme tidiness, 
which lends them a special charm. 

An elderly man and a young girl, his niece, were at 
one time the inmates of this pleasant little home. 

“ Constance,” said the old man, in a feeble voice, that 
betrayed recent illness, “you must not misconstrue my 
words. I know I can rely upon your own discretion, yet 
I must speak, for this can lead to nothing but trouble. 
Why does this young man continue his visits here ?” 

3 


4 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


“But, uncle, what can we do, however inclined? 
Can we forbid him to come, in view of his noble treat- 
ment of us?” 

“No, we cannot do that. We cannot tell him to stay 
away, but we must contrive to bring about that result 
in some way. True, he came to us opportunely.” 

“ As though responsive to my earnest prayers for 
aid. But for his coming, of what avail would have 
been my efforts during your illness ? An accident 
brought him to our door; his own nobility detained 
him until your recovery. For you have recovered; 
you are feeling better, are you not, dear uncle ?” 

•So saying, she approached him with solicitude. 

“ Yes, my pet, but you look very pale and worn ; and 
that is not strange. Your labors have been burden- 
some enough to have affected a girl less frail than you 
are.” 

“Never fear for me, uncle. I am recovering all my 
strength.” 

“ Yes, I am glad that you are taking daily walks to 
strengthen you. But in that habit do you not observe 
a striking regularity ? Ah ! it does not require your 
blushes to inform me that you are not always solitary 
in your rambles. Am I not right ? Is not the young 
man with you ?” 

“ Never by design, uncle ; often accidentally.” 

“ It must not be, Constance ; it is not wise. You 
both are young ; your stations far different. True it is 
that in natural qualifications you are his peer ; but it is 
a fact that money and its lack create the widest dis- 
parity. He is the son of a very wealthy man, while I 
own naught beyond what you now see in my possession 
Now, be his intentions ever so honorable, would his 
family consent to his union with a penniless girl? His 
own description proves his parents to be proud, and he 
is their only son. To what, then, can this friendship 
lead?” 

“ Direct me, uncle, as you will ; I shall observe your 
wishes.” 

Responding to a summons at the door, the young 
girl ushered into the room the subject of their conver- 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


5 


sation, a young man of twenty-two, who, having ex- 
changed the usual greetings with them, seated himself 
upon the chair assigned him. 

“ Constance,” said Mr. Cramen to his niece, “ Ella 
was here to-day during your absence, and wanted you 
to come over this evening. If Mr. Laycourt will ex- 
cuse you, I will try to entertain him until your re- 
turn.” 

With Mr. Louis Laycourt as an escort, she departed ; 
and the j 7 oung man, having fulfilled this duty, returned 
to Mr. Cramen. 

“ Mr. Laycourt,” said the latter, after some conver- 
sation of a general nature, “ I wish to speak to you 
upon a subject of great importance, and must request 
you, at the outset, to be generous in interpreting my 
motives and intentions. Do you know whereof I would 
speak ?” 

“ I think I can tell. About Constance ?” 

“ You anticipate rightly.” 

“ And without difficulty ; for that subject is at present 
foremost in my mind, and I wish to speak to you about 
it.” 

“ Proceed, so that we may understand each other.” 

“ Sir, can you not divine what I would say ? If ac- 
tion has failed to render my intent manifest, I must 
have recourse to words. An accident first brought me 
to your home and rendered my slight service possible. 
Is it accident that detains me now ? You cannot be so 
blind to my hopes, — my highest aspirations. I love 
Constance ; and if, with your permission, I can obtain 
her consent to become my wife, there is on earth noth- 
ing more of comparable worth that I can ask, nothing 
that can be bestowed.” 

“You would make her your wife? Have you re- 
flected well upon what you would do ?” 

“Ay* what any man would do, grasp, if he can, an 
assurance of happiness within his sight. Do you doubt 
my earnestness ? This is no sudden idea or vain con- 
ception ; but a thought fully matured and based upon 
feelings certain to endure forever.” 

“ I do not doubt your sincerity. I thought no less 
1 * 


6 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


of your intentions. But do not forget that my niece is 
poor, almost penniless ; and you are the son of a proud 
man, who counts his wealth perhaps by millions. No, 
it will not do ; your parents will never countenance this 
misalliance.” 

“ Misalliance ? Is she not in every respect my equal ? 
my superior in everything save that which accident 
has given and may at any time retake ? You do my 
parents injustice, sir.” 

“ Truly, I would it were so.” 

“And if it is not, what matter? Must wealth and 
vanity control my life ? If I cannot use these gifts to 
advantage, I certainly shall not, on the other hand, 
permit them to wreck my happiness.” 

“ You speak wisely, Louis. I admit, I did not fully 
understand you. I shall be frank with you. I am my 
darling’s sole protector and I am growing old. My 
only aim in life remaining is to assure her a more relia- 
ble support. I have tried to do my duty towards her. 
I have seen better days, and her education has not been 
neglected. She is, through nature’s favor, worthy of 
any man ; and, if you can obtain her consent, mine will 
not be withheld.” 

The young man grasped the hands of his aged friend 
and shook them warmly as he expressed his gratitude. 
Five minutes later, he called for Constance, with whom 
he was soon returning. 

“ See, Constance,” he said, pausing beside a little rill, 
that made low answer to the murmuring leaves, “ the 
scene presented to our gaze. Must happiness seek else- 
where for a home?” 

“No, no,” said Constance; “if but this cheerful light 
could extend to all, and we could feel that, in our own 
delight, we yield to the presence of a universal sym- 
pathy.” 

“ However tardy it may appear, to all again comes 
light. Your thoughts are ever with others, Constance ; 
mine are no farther from me than the one object at my 
side. Call it selfishness if you will. Is it selfish to be 
absorbed in unselfishness itself? No, it cannot be that ; 
for selfishness cannot produce real happiness.” 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 7 

She did not speak ; and, from his arm, he removed 
her trembling hand and clasped it in his own. 

“ Constance, I love you. Can words reveal my soul ? 
It knows but love and you. Will you believe my heart, 
already consecrated to its sacred object?” 

Constance laid her hand upon his outstretched arm ; 
and, bending forward, he sealed the bond of their be- 
trothal. 

More lustrous was the moon which guided their re- 
turn ; and, to their sight, the lofty crests of the trees 
attested a common ratification. Onward they walked, 
oblivious of the misery entailed by that holy compact. 


CHAPTER II. 

The home of Mr. Hugh Laycourt, a wealthy banker 
of Hew York, was a superb structure, situated in a 
suburb of the metropolis. The mansion, a marvel of 
architectural skill and execution faithful to a grand 
design, was surrounded by extensive grounds constitut- 
ing in style and beauty a miniature park. Attached to 
the dwelling was a conservatory in which were at all 
times to be found the choicest floral products of the 
land and rare exotics. In the mansion itself were 
many indications of the taste and means of its owner. 
The library, exceptionally large and selected with great 
care by the banker, contained the worthiest literary 
productions, from the infancy of letters to their ma- 
turity. The collection of various works of art afforded 
a gallery elegant and instructive. A minute description 
of the natural parts of the ground and building, and 
the artificial means by which the premises were embel- 
lished and beautified, would reveal, in addition to excep- 
tional advantages of situation, the presence of all the 
luxuries which money, expended at the instance of a 
cultivated taste, could procure. 

At a tender age Mr. Laycourt had been left an 
orphan, without friends or money to purchase any ; 


8 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


but he had health and strength, and lacked neither the 
ability nor will to work. Having applied for a situa- 
tion, he was referred to Mr. Yenton, a merchant of 
good standing, from whom he secured employment. 
This gentleman was reputed to be k*ind and benevolent, 
and the lad made earnest efforts to gain his employer’s 
good opinion. Fortune soon favored him with an op- 
portunity to prove his honesty and faithfulness. One 
day he discovered, in an unused portion of the base- 
ment, a pocket-book, containing bank-notes to a large 
amount. It recalled to him the fact that a wealthy 
gentleman now permanently abroad had made inqui- 
ries of Mr. Yenton concerning a pocket-book lost by 
him, and he hastened eagerly to his employer, whom 
he apprised of his discovery. Mr. Yenton’s benevo- 
lent face beamed with pleasure as he listened to the 
boy’s story and counted the contents of the pocket- 
book. 

“You are an honest lad, and I am proud of you, my 
boy ; you will be a successful man,” he said, stroking 
the boy’s head. 

Young Laycourt blushed and stammered with pleas- 
ure at these gratifying words, and, rightly believing 
his connection with the matter to have terminated, 
resumed his daily labors. The result of this accident 
was highly beneficial to both, the boy having secured 
thereby the good opinion of his employer, and the 
latter a pocket-book and its contents, while the lawful 
owner of the money was the only loser in the matter. 

This act of Hugh Laycourt was an indication of his 
character and conduct throughout his life. Like others, 
he had to pay dearly for his honesty, for honor is in ex- 
cellent demand and usually finds a good market; but his 
ability and experience soon enabled him to resist suc- 
cessfully encroachments upon his rights. 

While still a young man, his success in business was 
assured, and his progress towards a position of influence 
and independence was rapid. At the age of twenty-six, 
he met a young lady whom he determined to make his 
wife. She was the daughter of a proud and wealthy 
couple, who, notwithstanding her wish, opposed the 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


9 


union. At this time a daring venture left him the 
possessor of a large estate ; and, almost simultaneously 
with this event, — a stroke of fortune never coming 
singly, — the parents of the young lady consented. Great 
preparations were accordingly commenced, when he 
announced his intention to have a private wedding, and 
his disappointed bride was constrained to defer to his 
wish. Though his acquisition of wealth would appear 
to have improved his relations with his wife’s parents, 
it became evident, after the wedding, that that result 
was not contemplated by him. Knowing well that 
their consent was ascribable solely to bis fortune, and 
that he had, therefore, stood upon a plane of rivalry 
with gilded fools, he regarded their mercenary acts and 
themselves with contempt. He had very little inter- 
course with his wife’s family, though he permitted her 
to follow her own pleasure. For a time, this conduct 
evoked from Mrs. Laycourt expostulations and en- 
treaties, which yielded only to the proof of their use- 
lessness. She soon realized that he was not a man who, 
being king, would abdicate his throne. But, in the 
exercise of his prerogative, he was neither unjust nor 
unkind, and treated her in general with indulgence. 
Therefore, her submission entailed no sacrifice. 

Time increased his wealth and her social prominence. 
A millionaire usually incites more resentment than 
criticism, and his friends were inclined to overlook any 
peculiarity, upon the principle that so long as mortals 
cannot attain perfection, it mattered little at what point 
one’s pretensions ceased. 

One attribute which contributed vastly to Mr. Lay- 
court’s popularity was a very liberal disposition. A 
man, with plentiful means and lavish in expenditure, 
must look to a less grateful world for censure, so long 
as he observes the precaution to provide means of re- 
plenishment. Mr. Laycourt contributed generously to 
benevolent enterprises, by which conduct he elicited 
the warm approbation of friends, whose own course 
rendered his donations indispensable. Derogating from 
conventional form, his contributions were not preceded 
by newspaper paragraphs ; and speculators, doing busi- 


10 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


ness under a philanthropic title, found in him a good 
patron. 

With his wife he lived happily. Though proud of 
her birth and family, she entertained a sincere admira- 
tion for his ability, and never regretted her marriage. 
In time he learned, through custom, to observe many 
social requirements, for which he had a natural con- 
tempt. A year after their marriage, a son was born to 
them. Another child, a little girl, was born subse- 
quently, but died in infancy. Louis remained their 
only child, and the object of their constant vigilance 
and kindness. His mother treated him with excessive 
indulgence; and his father’s treatment, though kind, 
was sufficiently stern to enforce obedience. After con- 
cluding his course of studies in the primary and gram- 
mar schools, he was sent to high school, then to college. 
Exhibiting talent as an artist, he was placed under the 
instructions of a competent master. Mr. Laycourt de- 
signed to make his son his partner in business after the 
completion of his education, should he not evince a 
preference for one of the higher professions, in which 
case he would not constrain his choice. During the 
boyhood of Louis, the parents of Mrs. Laycourt died. 
Besides their son, neither she nor her husband had any 
relative living, and all their future hopes were centred 
upon him. 

Mr. Laycourt having, in the course of his experience, 
observed the misery arising from uncongenial mar- 
riages, determined to protect his son against this com- 
mon incubus. It was his chief desire that his son wed a 
cultured woman, who would not fail to reflect honor on 
his name nor to stimulate his ambition. Towards this 
end, he discussed, at various times, with another gen- 
tleman, the father of an accomplished heiress, the ad- 
visability of a union between her and his son. This 
project pleased both gentlemen, who, however, with- 
held a knowledge of their understanding from their 
children, to avoid opposition. 

“ Hannah,” said Mr. Laycourt to his wife, 11 do you 
not think that Ida Samlin would be a good wife for 
Louis?” 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


11 


“ I do,” she replied ; “ but he may not want her. I 
think that marriage is altogether a matter of the heart.” 

“ I do not agree with you,” said Mr. Laycourt. 
“ Your rule applies only to exceptions ; for, in the ma- 
jority of cases, the connection of love is merely nomi- 
nal. You will observe that, in our own country, where 
there is more love than anywhere else, and where no 
school-girl foregoes the exercise of her freedom and 
privileges, divorces almost rival marriages in number ; 
while in some parts of Europe, where marriages are the 
products of convenience and methodical arrangement, 
few divorces are sought. It is ofttimes well to abro- 
gate one’s rights. But, conceding the correctness of 
your position, we need not leave everything to chance. 
By following a guide one may still attain his goal. 
However, I shall not urge him. 

“ Can you account for his lengthy silence ?” he con- 
tinued. “Two months have now elapsed since the 
commencement of his vacation, and he has not been 
home during that period. He has written seldom, and 
not within two weeks.” 

“ You will remember, he accompanied some friends 
upon a fishing expedition ; so I am not at all uneasy,” 
said Mrs. Laycourt. 

“ Hannah, do you not think that this is the proper 
time to broach to him the subject of his marriage ?” 

“You must be the judge of that,” replied his wife. 

“I see no reason why the time is not appropriate,” 
said he. “ He may as well settle down now. He is 
now of an age when folly is at its prime and even genius 
delights in eccentricities.” 

The next day, Louis arrived at his home at a late 
hour, affording no opportunity for much conversation. 

“ To-morrow I desire to speak to you about an im- 
portant matter, Louis,” said his father, — “a matter upon 
which I have bestowed much reflection.” 

“ I shall make haste to place myself at your com- 
mands,” said Louis. “ I also wish to speak to you 
about an important matter.” 

“ Yery well. If you have a request to make, let it 
not be a trivial one. Good-night.” 


12 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


CHAPTER III. 

Louis Laycourt, after spending one blissful week in 
the company of his betrothed, declared his intention to 
return to his home. 

“ Heed I assure you, my sweet Constance, that duty, 
which takes me from you a brief time, will join with 
inclination to hasten my return to you ?” he said. “ Can 
I delay, with thoughts of you to urge me ?” 

“ I do not doubt you,” replied Constance. “ But, oh, 
Louis ! I have felt so strangely of late, since you have 
decided to go away. I know not what it is. Call it a 
foolish foreboding, if you will; but it oppresses me 
weightily.” 

“Dismiss it. Let not a childish omen exert an in- 
fluence upon our lives. I want from fate no better 
assurance than your promise. What just power would 
part us ? what evil power can ?” 

“ I know that in your hands our happiness is safe,” 
said Constance. “But, Louis, I know your parents 
are very rich and proud, while I am but a poor and 
simple country girl. May they not object to such a 
marriage?” 

“ Ho, Constance. Since my birth, my parents have 
indulged my every wish ; they never can be combative 
to my welfare ; and, were they ever so captious, you 
would meet their requirements. On my life and honor, 
they will never prevent our union.” 

“ Oh ! if they will but give me an opportunity,” she 
said, “ I shall live only for their comfort, if they will but 
regard me as their daughter.” 

After an affectionate farewell, he left her, and took 
the train for Hew York. Immediately upon his arrival, 
he repaired to his home, to acquaint his parents with 
his engagement ; but, as already seen, the matter was 
deferred until the morrow. 

Hext morning, he arose at a late hour, and found 
that his father had already gone to his office. His 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. . 13 

mother was confined by a headache to her chamber ; and 
the day was spent at home, in happy meditation. 

Towards evening, his father returned. After dinner, 
they were seated in the library. Mr. Lay court, gazing 
quietly upon his son, began the conversation. 

“ Louis,” he commenced, “you said you had some- 
thing to tell me. Proceed.” 

Singularly enough, since arriving, Louis had labored 
under great constraint with regard to the subject near- 
est to his mind, a feeling somehow not allayed by the 
kind manner of his parents. For, though he had, with 
perfect ingenuousness, repelled the fears of Constance, 
her words, by reason of their very vagueness, produced in 
him a strange uneasiness. Thus he had let slip an oppor- 
tunity to reveal the truth upon the evening of his 
arrival ; and now, notwithstanding the inquiry of his 
father, he felt reluctant to proceed. 

“ Yes, father,” he said, “ but what I have to say may 
be deferred for a brief time. You have something im- 
portant to present. Let us consider that.” 

“ Very well. Louis, you have attained an age which 
justifies you to contemplate a change in life, and you 
doubtless understand that your future happiness de- 
pends upon your choice of a wife. You have probably 
reflected upon the subject. Am I right ?” 

“ I have reflected much upon the subject, father.” 

“ Then you have, no doubt, come to that conclusion. 
Now, Louis, in choosing, you cannot be too careful. 
Most men plunge into marriage, as into all else, hastily, 
and accident befriends some of them. But you can pro- 
ceed in safety. Unless I overestimate your judgment, 
what you desire is a woman who is in every respect 
worthy to be the wife of any man.” 

“ For such a one my heart longs,” exclaimed Louis, 
with the particular one in mind. 

“ And such a one I know,” replied his father. “ Do 
you remember Ida Samlin ? Need any man look far- 
ther ?” 

Louis arose from his chair, and twice crossed the 
room with rapid steps. Suddenly he stopped before his 
father with evident resoluteness. 

2 


14 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


“ It is out of the question, father,” he said, “ as you 
will see when I make my communication. Father, such 
a girl as you describe — though you have mentioned but 
one-half her merit — I have found. More, I have gained 
her love and the promise of her hand.” 

“ You have done what?” exclaimed the banker, rising 
from his chair in extreme amazement. 

“Yes, I am already engaged, and when you see my 
fiancee , you will think her a most worthy daughter.” 

Mr. Laycourt for a time remained silent and thought- 
ful, then looked up and cast his penetrating eyes upon 
his son. 

“ And, at this stage, I presume, you come to inform 
me of your intention. If I do not approve, what course 
do you purpose to adopt ?” 

This question and the manner in which it was put 
tended to disconcert Louis for the moment ; but a 
thought of Constance returned to him, and he was 
resolute. 

“ Father, you have cause to be displeased ; I should 
have come to you sooner ; but your displeasure will be 
removed when you see her. I shall engage to remove 
it, and plead the result in my extenuation.” 

“ When did this occur ?” 

“ But a week ago. I have known her some months. 
In fact, my happiness is debtor to an accident.” 

“ It was my wish that you marry Ida Samlin ; and, 
though you marry a princess, it will be a disappoint- 
ment to me. Think well before you decide, Louis. 
Do not be in haste. Ho doubt you have chosen well, 
but ” 

He arose again and slowly paced the room. 

“ I regret that I have unknowingly opposed your 
plans, but you will certainly approve my choice, and 
will forget your present disappointment. Let my Con- 
stance be my explanation.” 

“ Who is she ?” 

“ Constance Cramen.” 

“Cramen? I never heard that name before.” 

“ Ho, she is not rich, nor of what the world calls 
superior birth, nor aristocratic.” 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


15 


“ I do not know what you mean ; you speak in nega- 
tives. There are many persons not of superior birth, 
nor rich nor aristocratic ; and yet they are no better 
for those reasons. You mean to say, I suppose, that 
this girl is your inferior.” 

“In fortune, yes; but in no other respect. Yes, 
father, it is true. She is a poor girl, without wealth, or 
prospect of it ; but tenfold rich in merit.” 

“ Cease your extolment of attributes which are hid- 
den from eyes, and which no one, without great pre- 
sumption, can profess to know, and come down to 
matters which every one can see and judge. Do you 
mean that her father is a broken-down merchant, who 
failed with more of his creditors’ money than affection ? 
What do you mean ?” 

“ Ho, sir, I do not mean that, although neither she nor 
her uncle — her only living relative — possesses anything 
that I could discern but the immediate means of sub- 
sistence. But what care we for that? We are rich 
enough, even if riches are requisite to contentment.” 

“ In other words, she is a poor village girl, and is, as 
she should be, with her uncle, penniless and unknown ?” 

Louis remained silent. 

“ And so she will remain, if I have any influence in 
the matter. Because I deem your project hasty and 
ill-considered, I disapprove it, and ask you to dismiss 
it as an error of the past.” 

“ Pray withhold your judgment until you see her.” 

“ See her ? Mark me, Louis,” — his voice here assumed 
an intense earnestness, — “ I have been very indulgent 
towards you. I have denied you no request. But 
never presume — never dare to bring that woman to 
my house.” 

“Until you revoke your edict, sir, you will never be 
molested by her presence,” replied Laycourt. 

“ Then let us drop the subject now and forever. I 
shall not tolerate this notion. Never urge it again.” 

“ I shall come to you after you have reflected ” 

“ No, I decline to hear any more about this nonsense. 
Let us consider that at rest.” 

“ Are you aware, sir, that I have pledged my hand 


16 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


and honor ?” inquired Laycourt. “I cannot be so for- 
getful.” 

“Such talk is idle,” said the banker. “ Suppose you 
did — as most young men do — make a hasty promise. 
A promise so preposterous must not bind you ; and, if 
she is in any respect a lady, she will, after your expla- 
nation, release you ; if not, we can buy them off. You 
say they are poor. Give them a home, an income, — a 
fortune, if need be, — in payment for your release.” 

“Not for ten thousand fortunes would I covet my 
freedom, so happily lost. I do not wonder .at your op- 
position, if you suspect the possibility of success in such 
an endeavor. Attempt to buy her with all your wealth ; 
and, if she accept a farthing, your wishes are fulfilled. 
Try, and convince yourself.” 

“ I shall do nothing so ridiculous. If she assert a 
claim, it will be satisfied, — not until then. You must 
dismiss the matter from your mind.” 

“Ask me as well to dismiss my mind from my body. 

I can comply as readily.” 

“ Yes, I have heard such talk before from boys of 
your age. She is always an angel, and angels never 
have any money, and hardly know who they are. But 
these credentials do not satisfy me. Come, my son, it 
may cost you some effort ; but unravel this entangle- 
ment.” 

“ Entanglement ?” 

“ Engagement, then. Break it at once.” 

“ You are not now serious ?” 

“ Perfectly, although you may think it difficult to be 
serious on a so absurd subject. My son to marry a 
penniless girl, whose family is both unknowing and un- 
known! This is a hoax on your part.” 

“ No, and let me set you right upon another point. 
You think them ignorant. They are not only intelli- 
gent, but educated and enlightened in the highest sense. 
As you assume to treat this matter — the most serious 
of my life — as a jest, permit me to inform you that I was 
never so earnest in my words and the fulfilment of my 
duty. My duty ! the term seems hypocritical, to make 
a duty of so sweet a task.” 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


17 


“ Enough on that. You must change your subject, 
if you would retain my interest in your speech. You 
must renounce your design. Your mother and myself 
cannot have our name dishonored by you, on whom we 
relied with so much confidence.” 

“ Nor will it be. Come with me, father, to her home. 
Judge for yourself; she is willing to abide by your 
judgment.” 

“ I have judged. Let that suffice.” 

“ Father, if you have been to me most kind and in- 
dulgent, I have striven to prove my devotion by an un- 
swerving adherence to your will, and so I still would 
do ; but you ask what is impossible. Solemnly and 
firmly I am bound ; bound by my will, my honor, and 
my happiness. Believe my assurance, you will not be 
displeased with my future wife. I would have brought 
her to you, but she would not come without your per- 
mission.” 

“ Hold ! You are going too fast. In speaking of her 
as your future wife, you either imply my consent or you 
ignore my opinion. The latter is my conclusion, as the 
former is groundless. Then understand me well. The 
day you wed that girl, you cease to be my son. Choose 
your course, and beware of a hasty choice.” 

“ My claims upon your possessions, I can renounce ; 
my claims upon and obligations to you, never. You 
cannot force me to such a choice. When you see her, 
you will approve my purpose.” 

“ I am, then, to understand that you will adhere to 
your engagement ?” 

“ I have no alternative.” 

“ Do as you will. The matter no longer concerns me, 
for henceforth we are strangers.” 

Slowly and measuredly, Mr. Laycourt left the room. 


2 * 


18 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


CHAPTER IY. 

The point of controversy was at rest between Lay- 
court and his father. After concluding his preparations, 
he waited upon his mother, who, though earnestly pro- 
testing against his contemplated marriage, sought to 
procure an amicable adjustment of differences. In vain. 
Her husband requested her, with a seriousness which 
she could not disregard, to make no mention to him 
of the matter; while her son’s resolve, strengthened 
by resentment at his father’s course, was irrevocable. 
When, after her pleadings had been exhausted, he an- 
nounced his intention to depart, she bade him a reluc- 
tant farewell. The banker locked himself in his room, 
and gave Louis no opportunity to see him. When 
Louis, after having requested to see him, learned this, 
he made no further attempt, and left soon after. 

It was dark when he left his home that night, with 
the determination never to return. After he was in the 
street, he did not even turn to view the stately man- 
sion which he was forsaking, but walked rapidly on- 
ward, in a state of high indignation. 

His first intention was to take the night train going 
from the city. He would not go at once to Constance, 
for he would see her only in a more happy state. But, 
ere he arrived at the depot, his anger yielded to a feel- 
ing of regret at the unfortunate outcome of his attempt, 
and then a full realization of the step he was about to 
take came to him. Yet, he thought, he could not act 
otherwise. He reflected again about the matter in all 
its bearings, and reflection only strengthened his con- 
victions. 

“ Ho, no, my Constance,” was the burden of his rumi- 
nations. “ Hot for worlds would I ever leave you ; and 
you will be to me the world that I have renounced, and 
more, — the world for which I have renounced it.” 

Involuntarily he wandered back into the old paths, 
until he was opposite his home. It appeared to him as 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


19 


though he were oppressed by some great trouble with 
which his contention with his father was not connected. 
He walked on until he had almost stepped upon his 
father’s premises, when suddenly he looked up, and all 
recurred to him. Then, as he stepped back, his anger 
vanished, and he experienced a more keen and subtile 
emotion. 

It was the home of his childhood, which he was about 
to leave forever. In it his happy infancy had been 
passed, and with it were connected many tender associ- 
ations. There he had been the indulged subject and 
respected master. He looked upon the scene of his 
youthful hopes and triumphs, and, as he looked, there 
came to him a feeling of keen desolation. It was his 
land of promise, and from its wide bounds he had cre- 
ated an eternal banishment. 

With a sigh, he turned, and cast no further glance 
upon the house. His mind reverted to the object for 
which he had made this sacrifice; and, finding duty and 
inclination so strongly allied, it required but a brief time 
to convince himself that his father’s demands were 
entitled to no consideration, and not much longer to 
forget everything save the future to which he was 
hastening. 

He passed the night at a hotel in the city, and next 
morning started for his destination. Arrived, he did 
not lose much time before visiting Constance, who 
welcomed him with fervor. 

“ Did you expect my return so soon ?” he inquired. 

“Yes, — no, — I did not know what to expect,” was her 
reply. 

“ Constance,” said Laycourt, “ I was not prepared for 
this. I had the vanity to think that I had gained your 
full confidence.” 

“ Oh, Louis ! how can you speak like that to me ? It 
is you who doubt me, not believing my implicit faith in 
you.” 

“ But, Constance, — I have no wish to lend importance 
to a spectre, — but why did you doubt my true devotion 
to you ?” 

“ Ho, no, I know your love is steadfast as my own ; 


20 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


but I did not think it possible that your parents would 
consent.” 

“ And I thought it impossible for them to dissent ; 
but then, we know, from our reading and experience, 
that a man’s vanity finds vent in his possessions. The 
good deem virtue the choicest attribute ; the wise deem 
intellect supreme; the rich first covet wealth, and of 
that one possession think every merit an incidental part. 
But, fortunately, such powers and influence form no 
criterion of action.” 

“ Is it, then, as I feared ? your parents object to me ? 
I knew it must be so. And I would love them well. I 
had already learned to love them for your sake. I would 
have tried so hard to please them.” 

“ Constance, it is so. Had my parents ever seen you, 
I have no doubt they would live chiefly for your love, 
as I do now. But they have never seen you. They 
do not know your many virtues, and their pride rebels 
against that which would most gratify it, did they 
but know the truth. But what matter ? I have de- 
clared to them, as I have to you, my unalterable inten- 
tion. They know that, with your consent, you will 
become my honored wife.” 

“ But will it not make them angry with you ? may I 
not be the cause of endless trouble ?” 

“Let us not consider that, Constance. We are satis- 
fied ; that is enough. The only arguments advanced 
by my father are wealth and position. I have suffi- 
cient means to maintain us. That is enough, so long as 
I retain your love and confidence.” 

“Forever,” said Constance, placing her disengaged 
hand on his shoulder. “ But, Louis, I am an ignorant 
girl ; I cannot judge. You must decide for both. I trust 
you with my life, my soul, my honor. Bemember that, 
while I am speaking to you. Then believe me, too, I 
love you too well to hold you to a promise which can 
be the cause of unhappiness to you; for I would then 
be so unhappy, and ” 

“Hold, Constance. You ascribe to me motives far 
less selfish than are those which actuate me. We 
understand each other thoroughly, my darling. It 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


21 


remains but for you to designate the day that is to wit- 
ness the consummation of my only hope. Will you state 
it, Constance?” 

“ I am yours forever ; claim me when you will. Let 
us ask uncle.” 

Thus was the matter settled between the lovers. Mr. 
Cramen, when apprised of the state of affairs, interposed 
no objection, and an early day was determined upon for 
their union. 

Laycourt, during his brief courtship, passed the days 
most happily. About a week after leaving his father’s 
house, he wrote him a letter, which was in effect an ap- 
peal to reconsider his determination. To this he re- 
ceived no response, and he resolved to make no further 
advances towards a reconciliation. 

Constance clung to him with unwavering fondness 
and confidence. After the first interview upon his re- 
turn, she did not offer to release him. Only once again 
did she allude to the opposition of his parents ; then, in 
deference to his wish, dropped the subject. 

Upon a pleasant summer’s day, under an auspicious 
sky, they, accompanied by a limited number of friends, 
rode to church. There, he, happier than when prospec- 
tive heir to millions, was wed to his lovely village bride. 


CHAPTEE Y. 

After an extended wedding tour, embracing, in addi- 
tion to the points of interest in the East, the Western 
States, the newly-married couple agreed upon a city 
adjacent to Constance’s home as their future place of 
abode. 

Before doing this, Laycourt purchased a handsome 
residence, which, though not so pretentious as his 
father’s home, was sufficiently spacious and luxurious to 
evoke wondering comments from his wife. This house 
he furnished upon a scale of elegance uncontemplated 
by his young wife, from whom he could not without 


22 


BERTHA LAYCOURT 


much urging obtain any of the suggestions solicited by 
him. 

She had not contracted extravagant habits, and to a life 
of ease and indolence she was unaccustomed. Neither 
would she venture to recommend to her husband a less 
expensive course, inasmuch as she regarded such a 
life to be his natural heritage. It was only regarding 
her own person that he experienced any difficulty in 
his free expenditures ; for, at the time of her marriage, 
nothing was further from the mind of Constance than 
the thought of her social betterment. 

On the other hand, Laycourt, inured to magnificence, 
lavished upon his appreciative wife costly gifts. His 
severance from his father did not deter him in his course ; 
for, besides possessing a fortune in his own right, his 
whole past life had led him to regard poverty as one 
of the ghosts of which he had often heard but which it 
was impossible for him to see. Moreover, he doubted 
not that when fate, thus far propitious, should contrive 
a meeting between his wife and his father, it would lead 
to a certain reconciliation. 

Thus, living in pleasant hopes and blissful realization, 
they were happy beyond their sanguine dreams. The 
lack of a permanent occupation for Laycourt did not 
manifest itself in the usual, disagreeable form, his only 
employment theretofore having been his studies ; and 
he and his wife passed a great deal of time reading 
together. He pursued also the art of painting, and de- 
voted more time to it than he would have done for any 
reward other than the admiration of his wife. 

Both Constance and Laycourt insisted upon her 
uncle’s lodging in their home, and finally prevailed upon 
him to accept their offer for a brief period ; but the old 
man had long desired to visit England, the land of his 
birth, and, after Constance’s marriage, he disposed of his 
cottage and other property, to accomplish his project. 
His physician recommended an extended voyage ; and, 
after remaining with Laycourt fora month, heresolved 
to go. So one bright day in summer, he stood beside 
the ocean, to whose shore Laycourt and his wife accom- 
panied him. 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


23 


“Next to my care for my little Constance, this was 
my greatest and my only wish. I depart in content- 
ment, with my child in such good hands.” 

“ I never thought that you would leave me, uncle,” 
said Constance, looking at him with tearful reproach. 

“ It may not be for long, my dear,” said Mr. Cramen. 
“In these days, travel is not as it was when I last 
crossed the ocean, and a few months may close my stay.” 

“ I would that they were past,” said Constance. 
“What a selfish return for all your goodness, uncle! 
You will write often ?” 

“ I shall write, Constance ; but, if my letters are in- 
frequent, blame your husband, for he has deprived me 
of my secretary.” 

Thus cheerfully spoke the old man ; but there lurked 
in his bosom a fear which he did not reveal. He was 
really in a more feeble condition than he cared to make 
known; and Constance, ever watchful of his acts and 
movements, detected his concealment. While Laycourt, 
then, felt in a most cheerful mood, his wife and her 
old guardian became oppressed by sadness, which they 
strove vainly to conceal from each other. When, after 
the vessel was announced to be in readiness, he bade 
them farewell, Constance seized his hand and besought 
him to remain with them. 

“ Why, my child, how strangely you act !” said Mr. 
Cramen, battling against his own inclination to abandon 
his projected tour. “ I cannot stay now ; my arrange- 
ments are made, and I must leave.” 

The last words, uttered in a tone of evident reluc- 
tance, reduced Constance to a tearful acquiescence, as 
though submissive to an unkind fate. 

At length he was aboard the vessel, receding from 
their sight. Constance waved her wet handkerchief long 
after his feeble eyes could see it ; and, when she turned 
to go, her husband for the first time perceived her feel- 
ing to be something far deeper and more grave than a 
momentary regret. 

“ It is best for him that he go,” said Laycourt, as 
they returned to the city. “He will return soon, in 
better health.” 


24 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


“No, I fear that he never will return,” said Con- 
stance, in a tone of melancholy. 

“ You must not let such spectres affright you,” re- 
turned her husband. “ Remember your last omen, and 
what a traitor it was to reason and to fact, as has 
since been developed.” 

“ It is not a foolish omen, Louis ; it is a fear, which I 
can scarcely overcome.” 

It required some time to allay her strange fears ; but, 
by the time they had arrived at the hotel in which they 
sojourned, her undefined fears had yielded to rational 
thoughts. 

They remained several days in the city. Laycourt 
procured a carriage, and conducted his wife to various 
points of interest, eliciting from her most flattering and 
exaggerated comments. For reasons which he did not 
attempt to analyze, he avoided for a time the vicinity 
of his father’s home. 

They were engaged in conversation when he beheld, 
at a short distance, his father’s barouche, on the point 
of turning towards them. In it were seated Mr. Lay- 
court, and several gentlemen whom Louis did not rec- 
ognize. The instant that he beheld his father, the latter 
gave a hasty order to his coachman, who turned into 
another street, at an angle with the first. Constance 
did not observe her husband’s agitation. Anxious that 
his father obtain a fair view of his wife, and thinking 
that the coachman was perhaps accountable for the 
sudden change of direction, he ordered his own driver 
to follow. They turned the corner. As they did so, 
the covers of the front equipage were hastily raised. 
Laycourt, convinced of his father’s purpose to elude 
him, repressed, as best he could, his feelings of wounded 
pride, and Constance did not suspect what had trans- 
pired. Towards evening, they returned to the hotel. 

This occurrence led Laycourt to believe that the 
breach between his father and himself might be irrep- 
arable. Certainly, gazing upon his wife and confirm- 
ing his own judgment, he perceived no occasion for 
self-reproach. The result, he felt, had justified his 
course. He would not subject his wife to probable in- 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


25 


suit by a meeting with his father, and he abandoned a 
thought, which had grown almost to an intention, to 
visit him. The reflection that he would not be heir to 
his parents scarcely occurred to him, as it might have 
done had he himself been destitute. This consideration 
exerted no influence upon him. He did not contemplate 
any serious effects resulting from his disinheritance, and 
he felt a general conviction that he would never want 
for anything. The past, like all other good, is often mis- 
leading. 

Next day, they returned to their home. 

Through written directions to his father’s servants, 
he procured his horses and other property ; and hence- 
forth resolved to communicate no more with his former 
home. At the lapse of a few days, his annoyance, 
occasioned by the unpleasant occurrence, had vanished, 
and there was nothing more to mar his happiness. 
Leaving the few harassing incidents of the past to 
that by-gone epoch, he turned his face with bold 
assurance to the future. 


CHAPTER YI. 

Laycourt had led a life of ease and comfort, and the 
methods to procure the means to enable a man to do 
this had occasioned him no concern. Even in conver- 
sation with his father, business had seldom been his 
topic. From his grandparents, he had inherited a 
moderate fortune, which, together with the settlement 
made upon him by his father at the attainment of his 
majority, left him in no financial embarrassment. His 
father, at times, as a mere matter of duty, cautioned 
him against excessive expenditures, and this advice 
Laycourt promised to observe ; but the only outlays 
which he regarded to be excessive were those which he 
did not make, and thus the economic principle found no 
application. 

Sometimes he ran heavily in debt. This conduct 


26 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


could not among the sons of wealthy men be regarded 
as exceptional but for his eccentric habit to repay the 
sums borrowed, — a practice which encouraged no emu- 
lation among his fellow-students. He loaned a consider- 
able sum to the latter, who reminded him faithfully of 
amounts whenever they wished to increase them. The 
borrowers were mostly sons of wealthy men, but imbued 
with the socialistic idea of interests in the property of 
others ; and, never having estimated the exact share to 
which they were entitled, they continued to draw their 
dividends. Laycourt never marked these debts as losses, 
— a fact ascribable to his imperfect system of book- 
keeping. 

He had practically unlimited credit; and having, after 
his marriage, drawn checks in payment of his enormous 
outlays, he was surprised to learn that for the first time 
he had exhausted his deposits and had made a heavy 
overdraft. This he met by the sale of real estate; and, 
finding the amount realized insufficient, he sold more 
land. These sales involved no difficulty ; and it is im- 
probable that he would ever have encountered any 
serious trouble if he could have continued to meet his 
requirements by more sales ; but the world comprises 
only a small area after all, and cannot meet the count- 
less demands for place upon it. 

Yet this discovery produced no uneasiness. It did 
not even present to him the necessity to reduce his ex- 
penses. He believed only that more sources of income 
were requisite. Thus he began to think about some 
employment, and made a natural choice. His father 
was realizing immense sums from his capital with no 
apparent labor ; then why could not he ? When ho 
thought upon the particulars, he did not at first discern 
his course ; but his father was acquainted with other 
men of business, and so must he become. 

He found it not very difficult to meet men of this 
character, — and characterless in all other respects. 
With these men he conversed on various subjects, — 
bonds, stocks, railroads, and the like. In some instances, 
his connection with these gentlemen extended beyond 
mere conversation. 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


27 


One individual, with a frank, open manner, and mild 
blue eyes, sold him some stock of a railroad, designed 
to be of such magnitude that its construction could 
never proceed beyond the design. Another speculator 
sold him, at a reluctant sacrifice, some lands, the only 
clue to which could be found in a technical description. 
Doubtless this man, pursuant to his promise, would 
have annulled the purchase, could he have been found ; 
but he had vanished, and a general ignorance of his 
whereabouts indicated his return to be very uncertain. 

Another person, who had promised on four occasions 
to call upon him with reference to important business, 
and had thrice failed to observe his appointment, finally 
came and communicated his project. It was to form a 
corporation, to sell a valuable patent invented by him. 
He explained his invention, and spoke with so much 
tact and earnestness that Laycourt might have con- 
sented to advance a larger sum than was demanded. 
The amount being advanced, the inventor departed 
with most sanguine predictions. Though receiving 
nothing in the form of a reminder, some time passed 
before Laycourt forgot about the patent. 

Notwithstanding these experiences, incidental to 
business life, Laycourt’s confidence in man did not 
waver. He had read of such occurrences, and now 
regarded himself singularly unfortunate to have been 
several times victimized. He resolved to be more wary 
in the future, and went so far as to decline some of 
the most unselfish propositions which the proponents 
claimed ever to have made. 

Having expressed a desire to embark in mining enter- 
prises, he was introduced by a friend to a gentleman 
who had just returned from the West with some choice 
specimens of ore. The mines from which these ex- 
hibits were taken had not yet been developed, but the 
necessary capital would be furnished by many enthu- 
siastic capitalists, who were unable to obtain a frac- 
tion of the amount of stock desired by them. The 
specimens exhibited were certainly excellent, and Lay- 
court bought some stock. Although the mines yielded 
sufficient to get his money into them, they never yielded 


28 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


anything to get it out. A committee was appointed 
by the company to raise another subscription, but this 
they were constrained to do without the aid of Lay- 
court. 

Some minor enterprises were more successful ; but 
required, from time to time, the investment of more 
capital, and he was finally compelled to dispose of all 
his real estate remaining but his residence, to relieve 
himself from embarrassment. Then it was that he began 
to pass anxious hours in reflection. The young man, 
formerly hopeful and careless, at times assumed a look 
of gravity. This change was perceived by Constance, 
who sought, with mingled eagerness and timidity, to 
learn the cause. To her, he portrayed the matter in 
the most favorable light justifiable. 

“ My dear Constance,” he said to her one day, upon 
which a creditor had proved importunate, “ I can hardly 
tell you what I have to say, but you are too good to 
blame me very much.” 

“Were I the most unreasonable being, you can do 
nothing to merit blame from any one,” was her reply. 

Laycourt took the hands of his wife, led her to a 
sofa, and seated himself beside her. 

“ Constance, I have recently met with repeated mis- 
fortunes,” he said ; “ I have lost considerable money 
in various ways, chiefly by reason of my inexperience 
in business, and to-day I certainly am not a wealthy 
man.” 

“You have been unfortunate and have not confided 
in me?” exclaimed Constance. “ Oh, Louis ! and I have 
been so shamefully extravagant.” 

“ Now, Constance, do not reproach yourself for a con- 
dition of things which you could not affect, much less 
avert. True, we have lived as if accident had not 
antagonized our wishes ; but my fortune was ample to 
maintain us so long as I did not meet with the heavy 
losses of recent occurrence. Constance, forgive me. 
When I asked you to be my wife, my prospects ex- 
tended unto millions ; and when, after my father’s un- 
reasonable objection, I renewed my offer, *1 possessed a 
fortune which, I now can see, could have been utilized 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


29 


to great advantage. What cared I for my father’s 
wealth ? I had far more than have many men who pass 
for rich, and whose prospects are regarded to be excel- 
lent. But I was blind, — blinded by my ignorance. But 
fear not, my Constance ; though I may not always 
keep you in luxury, I can provide for your security and 
comfort.” 

“ Nothing could please me better than the change 
contemplated by you,” said Constance. “ I know well 
what you would say ; for I have thought upon the sub- 
ject very often. Our house is too large. 

“ You are right in your conjectures, Constance ; and 
you have made my task far easier by anticipation. But 
do not think the change will be either marked or perma- 
nent. Some of my business ventures will, without doubt, 
be profitable. Then we will return to our attractive 
home, acquired by our own efforts. Then will we enjoy 
our surroundings without alloy.” 

“And all this you thought might not please me? 
What change can now affect my happy life ? None but 
that which death can wreak.” 

Thus ended the conference which he had approached 
with reluctance. Not that he doubted the cheerful 
acquiescence of his wife ; a knowledge of her willing- 
ness was his chief determent. 

Soon thereafter, Lay court sold his house. With the 
smaller portion of the amount realized, he purchased 
another home, which he furnished tastily and without 
nearly so much expense as was entailed by his former 
arrangements. The majority of the servants was dis- 
missed, and Constance established a system of economy. 
The funds remaining, he now resolved to employ judi- 
ciously. But it is one matter to discover one’s error, 
and quite another to avoid error in the future. He 
acted for a time with extreme caution, and had the 
mortification to see among his rejected proposals what 
proved to be a profitable undertaking. Now he learned 
that even in the management of promising pursuits 
experience is indispensable : and he found it necessary, 
to save his means already invested in business which 
might yield well, to place in more and more, until his 

3 * 


30 


BERTHA LAYCOTJRT. 


last ready resources were exhausted. Again he was 
obliged to sell his home, and assign his uncomplain- 
ing wife less commodious quarters, of which he held a 
monthly tenancy. 

“ I fear this is something which you did not expect 
in accepting a worthless husband,” he said. 

“ It is enough for me that I am with you, no matter 
where you are,” replied'Constance. “ You won my love 
before I had ever seen these houses ; but what were 
they without you ? How cheerless was our sumptuous 
home when you were absent ! Have I no soul, that I 
must needs have objects without thoughts or sympa- 
thies to love?” 

“ What can I lose so long as I retain the choicest of 
my possessions?” returned her husband. 

So saying, he caressed his wife ; and, as usual, dis- 
missed his cares after a brief and inhospitable enter- 
tainment. Then he passed, in his little home, an evening 
as pleasant as fate could devise, and knew no fears for 
the future ; for he did not know how much he had 
lost ; but into his calculations entered only what he 
still retained. 

Acting upon his resolution to refrain from specula- 
tion, he stemmed the tide that had so strongly set in 
against him, and things began to assume a more prom- 
ising aspect, Aside from his possession of a large 
quantity of stocks and bonds, with only the moral value 
of a warning, he was still interested in a manufacturing 
establishment, which he and his partner strove with 
zeal to render profitable. Into it he had placed nearly 
all the available means of which his friends had neg- 
lected to deprive him ; and, while knowing compara- 
tively little of the business, he was favored by fortune 
with a partner who took no advantage of him. 

But the time of wild speculation and extravagance — 
periodically regnant in this country — was at that time 
succeeded by days of utter depression ; and there ensued 
a time of commercial stagnation, when every outlay 
was burdensome and all investments hazardous, save 
those of corporations in public officials. These bad 
times served not only as a pretext for an endless num- 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


31 


ber of bankruptcies, but unfortunately affected the 
poor more notably ; for they could not assign their 
misfortunes to creditors, who could recoup by plunder- 
ing their creditors, after the charitable system now pre- 
vailing; nor could they appear in proper pomp as 
social leaders. Certain it was that when the clouds 
should be dispersed, the welcome rays would reveal the 
honest to be the chief sufferers ; yet for the coming light 
they eagerly longed ; for the path of honesty is circum- 
scribed by narrow limits, and all around was black. 

Among the sufferers were Laycourt and his partner. 
Laycourt felt by turns discouraged and jubilant, as the 
caprice of fortune seemed to warrant ; discouraged only 
until he arrived at his home and received the conso- 
lation of his wife. His partner was a man of wide 
experience, and at length made efforts to avert their 
total ruin by proposing a dissolution of partnership, 
each partner then to follow the guidance of his own judg- 
ment. This done, he offered his services in any capacity 
to Laycourt, who retained the business. Hot long, how- 
ever ; for he soon found no alternative but to assign all 
his belongings to his creditors. This he did in a manner 
which evoked the sneers and gibes of his friends, — 
acquaintances, rather, for the human heart is too noble 
to witness a friend’s misfortune ; and therefore, upon 
its coming, friends considerately withdraw. Failing to 
follow the examples of his neighbors and dictate an 
easy settlement, he made not even the last claim to 
which the law entitled him. In fact, utterly ignorant 
of the law and its method of enforcement, he did not 
suspect that in it a reckless adventurer could find a pro- 
tector, if not an ally. His creditors, reproaching them- 
selves with excessive leniency shown to others in the 
past, made a vigorous descent upon his goods ; and by 
sacrificing them in sales, obtained their money and left 
him an insignificant surplus. 

At this time, they were rendered happy by the birth 
of a little girl, — a delicate creature, who her nurse 
feared would die beneath her care, but who soon evinced 
an intention to pass no brief or inactive existence. 
Laycourt regarded his child with boundless pride and 


32 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


affection, while Constance would have suffered the 
pangs of a guilty conscience to save our heroine a mo- 
ment’s pain. 

In the mean time, Laycourt averted absolute want 
only by disposing of personal property, including the 
one horse not theretofore sold. The only articles of 
value yet remaining were some jewels presented by him 
to his wife ; but not for worlds would he have asked for 
them, nor would he reveal to her his really precarious 
condition. 

But Constance, ever watchful, though — deferential 
to her husband’s unproclaimed desire — never intimating 
her knowledge, beheld the disappearance of their prop- 
erty with deep solicitude. Being a thrifty housekeeper, 
she contrived to reduce the amount of her household 
expenses, and retained but a single servant during the 
infancy of her child. After the recovery of the infant 
from illness peculiar to children, the last servant re- 
ceived permission to visit some friends, and no effort 
was made to replace her. 

“ Constance,” said Laycourt, at the expiration of 
some days, “Bridget has -not returned; when do you 
expect her ?” 

“I — I do not know,” replied Constance, who had no 
intention to renew the servant’s engagement. 

“Then procure a substitute at once,” said her hus- 
band ; “ this labor is too arduous for you.” 

“I do not notice it at all,” said Constance, “save 
through the real pleasure I derive from it.” 

To appease her husband, Constance made several 
applications, but.. professed her inability to make satis- 
factory arrangements ; while, as time passed, his affairs 
assumed a very threatening aspect. 

He now gave his wife very little money, and often 
wondered how she managed to provide their meals. .He 
observed that she no longer wore her jewels, but this 
circumstance was so strongly in keeping with his con- 
dition that it evoked little comment. 

“ Constance,” he said one day when he noticed the 
absence of a bracelet which she had until then worn, 
“ where is your bracelet ?” 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


33 


“ The bracelet ? — I — I ” 

Constance ceased stammering and approached her 
husband, her eyes bedimmed with tears. 

“ Dear Louis,” she said, as she placed her hands upon 
his shoulder, “ can you ever forgive me ?” 

There was a moment of silence. 

“ Constance, you do not mean — you do not mean that 
you have sold your jewels?” 

“No, no, I shall part with life before with you or 
yours. But I — do not think me wicked nor ungrateful 
— I parted with them, but only for a time.” 

“You have pledged your jewels to obtain money?” 

“ Do not blame me too much,” pleaded his wife. “ I 
know it was wrong. I should not have done it. I should 
have asked you ; but baby was sick and needed medicine 
and clothes, and you were not at home. Do not be angry 
with me.” 

“ Angry with you ! Oh, Constance ! that it should 
have come to this! How shamefully have I betrayed 
my darling !” 

“Betrayed, Louis? you promised me all earthly 
happiness, and mine has been celestial. I never dreamed 
that life is half so sweet, that any one could bo so happy 
as I am.” 

“ Your happiness, love, lies in your power to bestow 
it ; but I had thought to provide for you all comfort. 
And how have I succeeded ? What — Almighty Powers ! 
— to what have I come? I! — I, Louis Laycourt, who 
thought to own millions, unable to provide for my wife 
and child ? What a strange anomaly am I ! The son 
of endless wealth, the father of poverty; the husband 
of a patient, suffering wife, the most miserable being 
upon earth.” 

He sat down and rested his head upon his hand. For 
the first time there came to him a full realization of 
his condition ; and thus he sat, oppressed with a deep 
despair. 

Not so Constance. Looking upon her husband in 
his woful condition, all fear was banished by sympathy. 

“Louis,” she said, as she gentlyraised his head, “how 
can you feel so sad when I feel so happy ? Do we not 
c 


34 


BERTHA LAYGOURT. 


love each other ? Have we not the sweetest little angel 
in the world ? My husband, why will you repine for 
the little we have not, and ignore the great blessings 
that we have ?” 

Laycourt took his wife into his arms and kissed her 
passionately. As he gazed into her lovely eyes, be- 
dimmed with tears, — the trophies of an emotion which 
knew not sorrow, — his fears gave place to mild regret. 

“ Truly, I am a selfish, senseless being, when you are 
mine and I want for more. Yes, Constance, you are 
right. We should be happy, and we will be, come what 
may. I shall not fear the future, with my faithful Con- 
stance at my side.” 

From Mr. Cramen, they had received several letters, 
to which Constance had responded ; but during recent 
weeks he had not written, and she now wrote another 
letter, urgently soliciting a reply. 

Constance now found a delightful occupation in the 
care of her child. Truly, as she said, she was happy. 


CHAPTER YII. 

The situation of Laycourt was growing daily worse, 
and offered no sign of extrication, when accident again 
befriended him in a singular manner. He received a 
letter, in which one of the friends to whom he had 
loaned money returned the sum borrowed by him. In 
this letter, by way of explanation, the writer stated 
that he had recently had better luck at betting, and he 
proposed now to pay those of his creditors who had 
not asked for their money. 

The amount received, though not large, wrought an 
excellent effect upon Laycourt ; for, though adding one 
to a myriad makes no perceptible increase, placing one 
where before there was nothing creates an admirable 
integer. Moreover, its merits did not rest alone upon 
its intrinsic value ; but it recalled to him the fact that 
he had loaned to other friends many sums, — trifles at 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


35 


the time, now magnified by fate to fortunes, — which 
they could now, at his request, return. But, perusing 
again the letter of his friend, he saw clearly that, in 
order to procure repayment of money loaned, it was 
necessary not to ask for it: and possibly his other 
debtors would be still more exacting. Laycourt was 
perplexed ; for, without concurring in this reasoning, 
he was aware that his concurrence was neither solicited 
nor desired, and that, as soon as he had loaned them 
the money, his connection with the matter had termi- 
nated. But it was by no means clear that to maintain 
silence was an infallible process of collection ; and, as 
he had adopted that method for some time without 
success, he resolved to incur the hazard of a reminder. 
To write to them, he had to overcome a natural aver- 
sion, and only succeeded to do so when the money last 
received was almost exhausted and his duty apprised 
him forcibly of its claims. 

At length he seated himself at a little table, — the 
only one they had, — and indited the letters. He would 
not describe his real situation. He assured them that 
hut for his requirements he never would mention the 
matter. His task accomplished, he felt happy in antici- 
pation of speedy relief. 

Having obtained employment in a small establishment, 
he was able to await responses ; and, in the mean time, 
small as his salary was, his wife, whose face had grown 
daily more pallid, — a fact which he ascribed to acci- 
dental illness, — improved visibly. With his present 
circumstances alleviated and his prospects improved, 
he enjoyed for a time a happy and untroubled existence. 
When he received his pay at the close of the first week, 
after purchasing necessary provisions, he bought a 
present for his wife and some toys for the baby. 
Constance received the gifts with a high appreciation, 
and both watched with loving pride the capers of their 
happy little child. 

“ Constance, what a strange school is this world, with 
circumstances as a leading master! I have learned 
more each day of my life during the past year than all 
the knowledge my father’s wealth and years of toil 


36 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


ever brought me. I have learned that wealth is not 
essential to happiness : yet money should be prized ; 
for, while its possession cannot bring happiness, its lack 
can produce endless misery. I trust we may never 
again have occasion to test its oppressive power, and I 
do not believe we will.” 

“ I know we will not,” replied Constance, “ I feel cer- 
tain that our lives will henceforth be as mine has been 
and is, in rivalry with happiness. Let us forget our 
past cares ; for weeds will grow in fairest gardens.” 

“ I deserve my troubles tenfold,” said Laycourt. “ But, 
Constance, when I married you, I was rich. Of what 
avail was that ? The stones from which a skilful man 
constructs a castle obstruct another’s path.” 

“ Louis, will you not think me foolish if I tell you 
that I feel still happier now than I felt when we were 
wealthy ?” 

“ Why, dear ?” 

“ I do not know, and therefore you will think me 
foolish. I have tried to analyze my reason, but I can- 
not do it, even to myself.” 

“ Shall I tell it ?” inquired Laycourt. “ You have 
taught a worthy lesson ; you have proven that cir- 
cumstance, the gigantic despot of the world, is weaker 
than the puniest mite in combat with a true wife’s de- 
votion.” 

Constance walked to the cradle, — the costliest prop- 
erty owned by them, — took her babe in her arms, and 
returned to her husband. He did not fail to notice that 
she almost staggered beneath the burden, but did not 
yet divine the real cause. He did not know the extent 
of her deprivation. She gasped as she resumed her seat 
beside him. 

“ Constance, you are ill,” he said, in some alarm. 

“Hot at all,” said Constance, with a smile, “but 
slightly fatigued,” and she lay back to rest. 

But, despite her efforts to conceal her weakness, she 
was soon constrained to retire. 

Next day she felt better, and, at the lapse of several 
days, her health appeared to be restored. 

The next two weeks were passed by them in blissful 


BERTHA LAYCOTJRT. 


37 


contentment, and in that brief period all traces of recent 
trouble were obliterated. Not the least regret at the 
loss of his fortune was now experienced by Laycourt. 
Had he in former years been told that, to procure a 
living, he would have to resort to daily toil, he should 
have spurned the idea as a gross absurdity. But now, 
after the necessity presented itself in the sternest form, 
he hailed with avidity the task to work for his beloved 
dependents. More ; he entertained not even a desire 
for the relief of accident or fortune. Their poverty 
constituted an additional bond between two faithful 
hearts. 

Their cause of contentment was not of lengthy du- 
ration. Laycourt’s employer, whose business was not 
then profitable, discharged a number of his employees, 
in which unfortunate number Laycourt was included. 
This was another new experience, and occasioned him 
an anxiety which might have developed into despair 
but for the encouragement of his wife. 

Several days passed, while he endeavored to obtain 
another situation. His efforts were vain. His funds 
were almost exhausted, and now he wondered why he 
had not yet received a response from any of the friends 
to whom he had written. Now he watched anxiously 
for the arrival of the mail-trains, which came with 
irreproachable regularity. 

He made a single effort to obtain a loan of money 
from a friend, who had at various times preferred of 
him the same request, with avail ; but, having no good 
security to offer, his application was, of course, unsuc- 
cessful. A hint of refusal was sufficient. In speechless 
scorn he left the man, and made no other attempt to 
procure a loan. 

One evening, to his great delight, he received a letter. 
The only enclosure in the envelope was a sheet of 
paper. It conveyed the information that the writer 
regretted the urgent needs of his creditor, but he could 
do nothing to meet or alleviate them, his father having 
recently settled his debts and placed him upon a monthly 
allowance. It was a most unfortunate affair, especially 
as he had contemplated the purchase of a horse. How- 

4 


38 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


ever, he held out hope that his father’s insanity was 
but temporary, and felt certain that, if Laycourt should 
advance him another small sum, he could avert em- 
barrassment until his father would recover his lost 
faculties ; when Laycourt could feel assured that his 
claim would not be forgotten. In a postscript he gave 
an address, to which a remittance could be made with 
safety, so far as arrival was concerned. 

Laycourt threw away the letter with a feeling of 
keen disappointment. He was glad that no other let- 
ter had yet come, for now he could still hope ; and, 
his friends not being apt by any hasty act to destroy 
this hope, it was reasonably certain of a lengthy ex- 
istence. 

From this time, no further occurrence stayed their 
deplorable fortune, and, within a brief time, Laycourt 
had sold all his household goods, with the exception 
of some indispensable furniture, including the baby’s 
cradle. He marvelled at the power of procurement of 
the small sum realized, for Constance served his usual 
meals, which, though of a coarser quality than those 
of former days, were yet of sufficient quantity to 
appease his hunger. But of late Constance no longer 
sat beside him at the table ; and, when questioned as 
to the reason, alleged her care of the infant, until one 
day it was asleep and destroyed her innocent 'pretext. 
Then he made her come to the table and partake of 
their frugal meal. 

One of the most demoralizing influences in life is a 
vague and unfulfilled hope for a possible good fortune. 
Strong minds are sustained by this vain expectation, 
while the weak, in moments of necessity, turn to it as 
the sole protector from an impending evil. 

Laycourt had not yet ceased to hope for answers 
from his friends ; and so when he noted, with great 
apprehension, the worst approaching, he did not realize 
the fearful possibility. He thought that when this 
expectation would leave him, he would make an appeal 
to some of his friends of the past, and they would ren- 
der him temporary assistance. These vague expecta- 
tions were kept alive largely by the encouragement of 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


39 


Constance. Even their nearest neighbor did not sus- 
pect their condition, so scrupulously did she conceal 
from others all indications of it. Her husband himself 
shared, to some extent, this ignorance. One day, the 
first time since fortune had turned against them, he 
found his wife in evident distress. 

“ Louis,” said she, “ I wish to ask you something. 
This morning ” 

“ Proceed, my dear,” said Laycourt, noticing her 
hesitation. 

“ This morning I met Betty Ledstone. You remem- 
ber her kindness to our darling little Bertie, after the 
nurse left ? She reproached me with neglect of our 
child; she told me that Bertie is ill. J)o you think so, 
Louis ? Is it possible ?” 

She walked to the cradle and bent over the child with 
great anxiety. 

“ I do not think so,” he said, “ but she is a little pale, 
like yourself.” 

“ She said it needs a change, and asked me to leave 
it with her two or three days ; she made me promise to 
seek your permission, Louis. I think she is a faithful 
soul, and loves the child no less than her own.” 

It was impossible to misunderstand her meaning or 
full intent, so delicately broached. It was the first in- 
timation of their state forced from her by necessity. 
With a great effort, he repressed his bitter feelings, and 
turned aside, as though in reflection ; while the child, 
awakened, claimed the attention of his wife. To con- 
ceal his feelings from her, he endeavored to exclude 
all thoughts of an unpleasant nature from his mind, 
and to consider merely the question of utility. 

“ I think it best,” he said. “ Ho as you think best. 
Take the child to her ; but not for long. Ho, no, she is 
our child. She will soon return. Constance, take her 
there. It is best, — best for her, for all of us.” 

The woman had sent a little buggy as a conveyance, 
and Constance took the child and placed her in it. As 
Laycourt pressed the child to his breast, his resolve 
appeared to him like a decree of banishment. It was 
not with him a temporary nor a capricious thought, but 


40 


BERTHA LAFCOURT. 


the impression created by the separation, was never 
eradicated from his mind. To deny his child the right 
to share even their misery appeared to him a partial 
sundering of their common interests. 

Whether it was his strange manner, the tearful face 
of Constance, or some more remote cause, that disturbed 
the child when she was seated in the buggy, did not 
appear. But, when the door was opened, she turned 
towards her father a glance of childish wonder, and, as 
her mother began to roll the buggy through the door, 
she stretched out her arms towards him and cried. 

Laycourt had succeeded partially in quieting his 
scruples with the cold voice of reason, but the innocent 
protestations of hjs child recalled his poignant emotions. 
He tried to smile upon his daughter as she was rolled 
to the door ; then, at sight of her remarkable outburst, 
he covered his face with his hands, and thus he sat, in 
speechless despair. 

Constance left her child, which ceased to cry, and 
approached her husband. For a half-minute, she did 
not attempt to break his woful silence ; then she 
spoke. 

“Louis,” she said, placing a gentle hand upon his 
head, “ our little pet is still here. She does not want to 
go. She shall not go.” 

Her husband slowly raised his head. His look brought 
added torments to her heart. When he spoke, it was in 
a manner so changed that she could scarcely have rec- 
ognized him by it. In those few moments, there had 
come to him a full sense of his responsibility, a knowl- 
edge of his paternal ties and duties ; and in his tone, 
so keen and bitter, there entered a new dignity. 

“ Look upon me, Constance,” he said. “ Am I a man, 
a father? and yet must send away my child from my 
home for safety? This is too much, too much. To 
refuse her my protection, and choose that course as a 
less tortuous alternative! Unhappy being that you 
are, my Constance, to have linked your fate with 
misery.” 

“ Louis, if we are afflicted with an uncommon sorrow, 
let us remember that it is uncommon and unusual with 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


41 


us. Do not look at our ill fortune so seriously. Our 
child is still with us, and so she will remain. And, as 
for us, can we not bear reverses, that, poised upon the 
scale which meted out our happiness, seem light as 
air ? Oh, Louis ! where can we look for happiness if 
not into our own souls? where can we find it if not 
there ? The day that made me your wife placed me 
beyond the influence of accidents and strange circum- 
stances.” 

“ Ah ! when I look upon your face, my Constance, I 
feel a spiritual exaltation not unlike your own. But 
can you marvel that I rebel at times against a fate 
which has made me recreant to my promises to you? 
Yet you are contented. How, then, can I be dissatis- 
fied? All may yet be well. Let us send our child to 
the good woman, with the cheerful knowledge that we 
will soon reclaim her.” 

Gradually they grew more hopeful, and this improve- 
ment wrought so tranquillizing an effect upon the child 
that, when her mother again attempted to convey her 
from her home, she offered no resistance. 

Who can analyze the emotions of Constance as she 
pursued her path and rolled the little vehicle before 
her? A wife’s deep sympathy, a mother’s tender love, 
the weighty concernments combined withal ? But 
against despondency her nature was arrayed in strong 
antagonism ; and, as she walked onward, her soul was 
filled with a calm peacefulness which in another would 
have been unaccountable. It required some time to 
arrive at her destination ; for, though the distance was 
not great, her light task proved a burden, however 
sweet, to her. The good mistress of the house which 
she entered received her with a respect unabated by 
misfortune. 

“How pale you are!” she said, as Constance seated 
herself, breathing heavily, after her task. “ Have a cup 
of tea.” 

Constance declined, but without avail ; for Mrs. Bed- 
stone fairly forced the beverage between her lips. 

“ You are so kind, so very kind,” said Constance. “ I 
shall never forget you.” 


4 * 


42 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


“ You are too good to think less of any one,” replied 
Mrs. Led stone. 

“Betty,” said Constance, with a voice of unusual 
energy, “I have consigned to you a charge to me more 
precious than my life and soul. Be good to her, Betty. 
You cannot be otherwise; but do not blame an anxious 
mother for such a request.” 

“ I promise,” said Mrs. Ledstone, “ I vow that, as 
long as I keep the dear little thing, she will be to me 
my own child. But, Mrs. Laycourt, why do you speak 
so strangely ? I felt, while you were talking, like a 
person listening to another’s last request.” 

“Was I so serious?” asked Constance, with a smile. 
“Well, is not the subject a most serious one to me? 
I have your promise, and you have my deathless grati- 
tude.” So saying, she arose from her chair, kissed 
her friend, and extended her hands, preparatory to de- 
parture. 

“You want to go? not if I* can get enough help to 
hold you. Dinner is ready, and you must stay.” 

Constance started back, with a flushed face, and 
turned from the table, on which was spread an in- 
viting meal. The invitation wounded her deeply. She 
to enjoy a meal which her husband was unable to pro- 
vide for her and which he could not share ! The very 
suggestion filled her with a repulsion extending, for 
the moment, to her hostess. She did not trust herself 
to reply at once; but, when she did, it was to reject 
the invitation in a kind, but decided, manner. Thus 
she refused to touch a morsel of the first sufficient meal 
vouchsafed to her by opportunity for many days. 

Constance returned to her home, and, in her enter- 
taining of her husband, was unusually vivacious, while 
for some time they sat side by side and conversed. 
Suddenly she grew deathly pale, and laid her hand 
upon her heart. Laycourt arose in great alarm, and 
received his fainting wife upon his bosom. He laid her 
gently upon the bed, and, with water, the only restora- 
tive at hand, succeeded in reviving her. As soon as he 
could leave her, he ran hurriedly for a physician. He 
knew he could not pay him, but no act committed in 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


43 


her cause could be degrading. With this feeling, he ran 
until he arrived, quite breathless, at the physician’s 
office, and announced his mission. 

He was soon followed by the physician, who examined 
her attentively, and his experienced eye ere long de- 
tected her condition. He glanced from her to her hus- 
band in mute astonishment. 

“ Why, man, if you are a man, what have you done ? 
You have starved your wife!” was his declaration. 

Laycourt started back with a wild exclamation. 

“For shame!” came from Constance’s lips, in a tone 
almost inaudible. “ He has been to me the dearest 
husband upon earth.” 

“ Then I am the most ignorant dolt in my profession,” 
replied the physician, while Laycourt sat at the foot of 
the bed in unspeakable desperation. 

Then for the first time did the truth occur to him. 
To afford him subsistence from their scant material, 
she had denied herself almost entirely the comforts 
which, to the delicate woman, were necessaries of life. 

The physician, after prescribing for her, declared he 
could do nothing further then. In answer to Laycourt’s 
anxious inquiries, he said he could give him no definite 
information ; that she was seriously ill, and would prob- 
ably not recover. He then left him, went to a store, 
and purchased provisions and other necessaries, which 
he ordered to be sent to Laycourt’s home. 

Laycourt, after administering the medicines sent by 
the physician, sat quietly by his wife until she fell into a 
peaceful slumber. Then he arose, procured the remainder 
of the writing materials purchased when he wrote those 
useless epistles, and penned a letter to his father. 

The goods purchased by the physician arrived. Lay- 
court paid not the slightest heed to them ; for the 
plentiful stocks, a small portion of which would have 
sufficed to avert this misfortune, were now useless, since 
she could not taste them. All night he sat, watching 
tenderly by the side of his wtfe, and, during her slumbers, 
he sat at the table, his face buried in his hands. 


44 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


CHAPTEB VIII. 

“Hugh,” said Mrs. Laycourt to her husband, some 

days after her son’s departure, “ I think ” She 

paused in embarrassment. 

“Well,” said her husband, “what do you think?” 

“ Would it not be well,” resumed Mrs. Laycourt, — 
“ that is, — do you not think that it might be well to 
see Louis and the woman who has entrapped him ?” 

Mrs. Laycourt, after her hesitation at the first portion 
of her remarks, spoke very rapidly, and concluded with 
visible relief. 

“It would not be well for them, and certainly not for 
me. I do not want to hear an allusion to this subject 
except when I am in a mood to relish the most extreme 
annoyance.” 

Mrs. Laycourt dismissed the subject with a sigh, and 
thereafter they very seldom alluded to their absent 
son. 

But it was observable that the episode had produced 
upon Hugh Laycourt a deep impression, inseparable 
from his existence. It manifested itself in various 
ways. For the first time in his life, a heavy loss re- 
sulted to him by reason of his neglect of an important 
transaction. Another enterprise, which formerly would 
have been irresistible, did not arouse his interest. Albeit 
his gains and steady income were enormous, he seemed 
to work with less ardor than had marked his former 
efforts, as though money had lost its charm. In truth, 
on the evening of a day upon which alone he gained a 
moderate fortune, his wife discovered him seated in an 
arm-chair in his library, in a state akin to melancholy. 

“ What is it, Hugh ? Are you not feeling well ?” she 
inquired. 

Mr. Laycourt turned lift eyes dreamily towards his 
wife. 

“ Have no cares for me, Hannah,” he said, “ I am 
never ill.” 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


45 


“ Mr. Smith was here, and said he would call again 
this evening. He wants to see you without fail.” 

“ Send word to him that I shall see him at another 
time.” 

“ He said the matter is very important:” 

“ Yes, important to him, as he has a profitable scheme 
in mind. Hannah, to what end is all this? why do 
men go on gaining money and wanting more, although 
they find themselves unable, when they have it, to pur- 
chase with it what they most desire ?” 

“ What a strange question !” returned Mrs. Laycourt. 
“ I have never heard such a one from you before.” 

“ Perhaps not ; yet why should I, of all others, strive 
to augment my store ? what can I accomplish ? where 
will it all go ?” 

“ Do not take such a hopeless view of the future,” 
replied Mrs. Laycourt, who did not regard their rela- 
tions with Louis to be nearly so serious as they appeared 
to her husband, and entertained a general idea that 
eventually all would be well. 

“ Hopeless ?” repeated Mr. Laycourt. “ I have noticed, 
in the journeys of my life, hope travels as the valet 
of disappointment. Tell me, for what am I striving? 
what can I gain ? wealth ? take it all from me, and see 
if you can render mo more disgusted than I am.” He 
concluded with a sound that was almost a groan. 

It was the first time that Mrs. Laycourt had ever seen 
her proud husband in this mood, and it filled her with 
a surprise and dismay which enforced her silence. Mr. 
Laycourt, observing her emotion, became aware of the 
position in which he had almost involuntarily placed 
himself. 

“ Do not misunderstand me,” he said, with restored 
equanimity. “ I do not grieve for the absence of my son 
so much as that I ever had a son. Head this.” 

Mrs. Laycourt took the newspaper which lay upon 
the table, and started back with the surprise occasioned 
by the happening of an event long expected. It was a 
description of the marriage of her son. 

“ This cannot be true,” was her first utterance, after 
hurriedly perusing the principal portion of the item. 


46 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


“ I do not see anything improbable in it,” returned 
her husband. 

“ But I never thought he would do it,” she said. 

“Why not? What was there to deter him? his 
father’s will ? his mother’s pleading ? What cared he 
for such impediments ?” 

“Well, he has made his choice,” he went on calmly, 
“ and he is no doubt prepared to abide by it. He has 
discarded his last vestige of a claim. Henceforth, to 
me he lives no more.” 

Mr. Laycourt walked slowly to a bookcase, selected a 
volume, and, seating himself, commenced reading. 

Mrs. Laycourt repaired to her boudoir, and reread 
the loathsome paragraph. She dashed the paper to the 
ground, and stamped furiously upon it. Unlike her 
husband’s keen emotion was her grief, for even now 
she did not contemplate the probability of an enduring 
separation from her son ; but he was her only child, she 
was a leader in social circles, and she had planned his 
marriage as an event to mark an epoch in her social 
life. Disappointed pride — to her it offered no sugges- 
tion of vanity — more than maternal apprehension filled 
her breast, and wrung from her a flood of tears. 

After that day, she never found her husband in the 
despairing mood once betrayed to her ; but he appeared 
to have lost all interest in his financial advancement, 
and during the next year, having disposed of matters 
pending, renounced his active business career. This 
done, he proposed a trip to Europe, and it required but 
a brief time to complete his preparations. Indeed, he 
would have started at once but for the detention of his 
wife, who displayed a closer regard for the details of 
preparation for such a journey. 

He now spent more time than formerly in reading, 
and participated as before in social events. It was some 
months before his departure for Europe that he, while 
driving with some friends, caught sight of his son 
driving towards him and ordered his coachman to turn 
away. 

“ He is the most ungrateful son ever born,” remarked 
Mrs. Laycourt to her husband. “ He must know we 


BERTHA LAFCOURT. 


47 


are going to Europe, as it is announced in every paper 
of any importance.” 

“ Did you really expect a farewell visit from your 
son ?” replied Mr. Laycourt. “ You have your answer. 
Pray lose no further thought upon the subject.” 

“ At all events,” continued his wife, “ we are justified 
in our course ; for do you know that, although she was 
a penniless creature, the heartless minx expends his 
money with an extravagance never known ? I know 
that to be true, every word of it. I heard it from those 
who know.” 

“No doubt; it is but natural. The rich regard 
wealth as a convenient possession ; the poor revere it 
as the most precious gem in the diadem of happiness. 
Croesus himself would prove a beggar to a girl, poor 
and socially ambitious.” 

“ I thought I might — that you would perhaps want 

me to write a letter — this letter ” stammered Mrs. 

Laycourt, producing an envelope addressed to her son. 

Mr. Laycourt took it, glanced at it quietly, and tore 
it into fragments. 

“ Hannah, you treat this matter either with alack of 
seriousness, or with bad judgment. Never attempt to 
do such a thing as this again.” 

“ I only wanted to write if you approved,” said Mrs. 
Laycourt, who had made the proposal as a tribute to a 
sense of duty, though without anticipation of success. 

Some days later, they were on board a vessel bound 
for Europe. Mr. Laycourt travelled without a personal 
attendant, and his wife contented herself with a maid 
and an assistant. It was not their first voyage to 
Europe, and the journey, though in itself delightful, 
presented in the main no novelty to them. As a matter 
of course, irrespective of their personal merits, they 
were received everywhere with a deference which 
would have satisfied any commercial reporter as to their 
financial standing. These attentions were accepted by 
Mrs. Laycourt with a proud assurance, but were re- 
garded by her husband with contemptuous indifference, 
which he at times made little effort to conceal. 

“ I cannot understand your actions of late at all,” 


48 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


remarked Mrs. Laycourt. “ Formerly you made efforts 
to gain respect ; and now, when your station is beyond 
dispute, you fairly reject what you have gained.” 

“ Let me tell you a fable, which will enlighten you 
concerning my reasons,” replied her husband. 

“ A sheep, seeking refuge from wolves, found it in a 
lion’s lair, before which other beasts were wont to pass 
and bow their heads in servility. The lion being absent, 
the sheep reigned there as sovereign, and its former 
persecutors, fearing to cast a look within, rendered it 
homage. This is an apologue with no doubtful affabula- 
tion. The hordes survey surroundings, and cast not 
even a glance upon the object of their adulation. These 
kind attentions which I receive are like my bonds, trans- 
ferable. An accident may to-day deprive me of them.” 

Among the various places visited by them was an art- 
gallery, where was displayed a picture which many 
critics pronounced to be a rare production of genius. 
Upon their arrival, they found a numerous throng sur- 
rounding a handsome frame and enthusiastic in their 
praises. As soon as they could make their way to the 
painting, they did so. Mr. Laycourt did not profess to 
be a connoisseur, and, to his view, the picture possessed 
no reasonable claims of rivalry with several of his own 
collection ; but, in view of the many wondering com- 
ments heard by him to the contrary, he had not the 
temerity to assert this opinion. The painting was 
offered for sale, and Mrs. Laycourt requested her hus- 
band to purchase it; but, before he had an opportunity 
to comply, the bids were advanced to a figure so ex- 
tremely out of proportion to its apparent value, that 
he could not bid without an affront to his judgment. 
Two gentlemen, both reputed to be excellent judges of 
art, were the chief competitors, and one of them finally 
secured the prize for a fabulous sum. Next day a news- 
paper contained a full account, with a supplement which 
created delight in all save the fortunate purchaser. 
It appeared that the genius whose work had been 
advertised to be presented had a poor friend, an artist, 
whom he desired to assist. His own picture having 
been disposed of previously, he had allowed his friend 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


49 


to present his copy of the same in place of the origi- 
nal, with the result already detailed. The purchaser at 
first contemplated severe litigation ; but, being a man 
of highly cultured taste, and too modest to parade that 
fact conspicuously before the public, the matter ended 
there. 

“ It reminds me,” said Mr. Laycourt, “ of the time 
that a number of friends of acknowledged musicial 
taste took me to hear a performance by a celebrated 
diva. We came late to the opera, but were entranced, 
notwithstanding a singular chariness of applause on the 
part of the audience. My friends pronounced the lady 
a musical sorceress, and it was not until next day we 
learned that, owing to the illness of the leading song- 
stress, the management had made a substitution.” 

Mrs. Laycourt muttered something about the pro- 
pensity of newspapers to publish sensational stories 
without the sanction of truth. This he could not deny, 
and she felt her judgment to be vindicated. 

After an absence of over two months, they had no 
intention to return, when some news which reached 
their ears exerted a strong influence in the formation 
of their plans. At Eome, they met a friend from 
America; and, after some general conversation, the 
gentleman gave Mr. Laycourt his first information re- 
garding the misfortunes of his son. The story depicted 
truly Louis’s downward course, although the gentleman 
was ignorant of the extent of the young man’s losses 
or of his reak condition. Thus the report was only 
tinged with the proper light which could reveal his 
lamentable state. But it was sufficient to render Mr. 
Laycourt uneasy ; and, without communicating this 
knowledge to his wife, he surprised her by declaring 
his purpose to embark for home without delay. 

Mrs. Laycourt, who had devoted half her time to 
purchases, now discovered how shamefully the other 
half had been spent in idleness, and remarked that 
her purchases had not been completed. To this, her 
husband replied that, as life is short and would prob- 
ably not be prolonged for this special purpose, they 
would be compelled to leave her duties partly unfuL- 
c d 5 


50 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


filled. Mrs. Laycourt protested against an immediate 
return ; and her husband, unwilling to state the motive 
of his departure, consented to a prolongation, when she 
announced her desire to return. This sudden change 
of intention occasioned Mr. Laycourt some perplexity, 
until he heard her reason. 

“What causes this sudden change?” he inquired of 
her, while she was directing her maids in packing her 
trunks. 

“ Oh ! because — I don’t know,” was the lady’s lucid 
response. 

“ I knew that you must have an excellent reason, but 
underestimated its logical importance,” replied her 
husband. “ Then, if you please, name the day of this 
week on which we can go.” 

Mrs. Laycourt did so, her husband gave his orders, 
and, at the appointed time, they were aboard a ship 
bound for home. 

Luring the return voyage, the banker passed many 
restless hours. He could not account for this oppressive 
feeling, for the explanation which suggested itself to 
him was repelled as preposterous. The idea that his 
son could be in urgent need of the money which he ex- 
pended so lavishly was too preposterous and repugnant 
to be entertained for a moment. Yet he longed to reach 
his home and relieve his mind ; and, when a storm arose, 
retarding their progress for a day, it required an effort 
to conceal his impatience. 

At length, the ship lay at anchor in port, and the 
passengers disembarked. By this time, his impatience 
had for the most part vanished, and he relegated the 
thought which had disturbed him to the oblivion to 
which other unfounded forebodings had been consigned. 
This change of feeling was not at all inexplicable; for, 
when the gloomy possibilities suggested themselves 
while he was upon the sea, his own inability to act 
rendered the thought of another’s helplessness more 
probable; but now he was again at home; and, as he 
stepped upon the land which embraced his own broad 
possessions, a sense of power pervaded his mind. He 
looked upon his surroundings with reawakened in- 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 51 

terest, and had leisure to notice various objects as he 
and his wife were driven slowly to their residence. 

Here he found perfect order prevailing. Nothing 
had been neglected, save in his library an accumulation 
of letters, at which he glanced hastily until he caught 
sight of one that arrested his attention. It had been 
received a week previous, and was in the handwriting 
of his son. He tried to retain his composure ; but 
success was not attested by the unsteady hand which 
broke the seal. He almost tore the envelope into frag- 
ments in drawing therefrom the letter which Louis had 
on that unhappy night addressed to him, and which 
he now read, as follows : • 

“ If ever in the mournful past my sorrows found re- 
sponse in your own soul, — if recollections of the by-gone 
days can bring a tender thought of your unhappy son, 
— my father, do not forsake me now. If but my miser- 
able life could expiate the awful sins which heaven lays 
to my charge, I would ask no further mercy. But 
this is too much. My Constance now lies — Oh, my 
God ! — perhaps upon her death-bed. Save her, father ! 
— save her! She sacrificed her life for me, — and I 
stand by, weak, — impotent, — miserable. Save her, 
father ! — save my Constance 1” 


CHAPTER IX. 

As Hugh Laycourt finished the perusal of this letter, 
he sat back in his seat as cold and expressionless as a 
stone. It was a culmination not expected by him. 
Though he had deliberately disinherited his son, it 
must be noted that the latter, in reasonable contem- 
plation, had no occasion then to fear the menaces of 
poverty. Now, when the banker learned the truth, the 
stupefaction that overcame him for a brief time was 
succeeded by mingled feelings of dismay, horror, and 
deep anxiety. For some time he sat thus, without 


52 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


ability to think of a plan of action or of anything fur- 
ther than the astounding fact. He heard footsteps 
approach ; and, being a man who relied entirely upon 
his own resources, he arose and locked the door. 

This interruption tended in part to restore his com- 
posure. Ho paced the room for a time, and, after 
writing a hasty note to his wife, to whom he would not 
then impart the truth, he summoned his coachman and 
was conveyed hastily to the depot. Without difficulty, 
he perfected arrangements to have a special train; and, 
at the highest speed attainable by steam, he approached 
the home of his son. 

He tried to curb his impatience. He sat down, and 
took the letter from his pocket. Upon the first reading, 
the only circumstance which produced an impression 
upon him was the condition of Louis, and the allusions 
to Constance were glanced over hastily, almost eluded. 
But, as he read and reread the letter, as he noted 
there the earnest tributes to her worth, and above all, 
the affection which had survived the calamities that 
had so evidently befallen them, he inveighed against 
himself in bitterest terms. In vain did reason urge 
him to await the result of his own observation. Ho 
remembered to have rejected this proposal when it was 
advanced by his son, and that refusal deprived him of 
this temporary consolation. What if she were dead 1 
was the thought which affrighted him. But no, that 
could not be. Louis would certainly not have waited 
until his aid was useless before invoking it. That was 
incredible. Far more probable was it that the illness 
which prostrated her had been exaggerated by her de- 
voted husband. This theory afforded him an hypothesis 
upon which he could exercise his reason in arriving at 
a decision upon his future course. 

The journey seemed to him an extremely lengthy 
one, and darkness set in before the train reached the 
station. He had a fellow-passenger, travelling on the 
train by his permission, who left the train at the same 
station, and from him Mr. Laycourt sought information. 

“ Your pardon, sir,” he said, “ but do you reside in 
this town ?” 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


53 


“ I do,” replied the stranger, “ and have been hero 
many years.” 

“Then you can probably direct me to the home of 
Louis Laycourt ?” 

“ Laycourt ?” repeated the stranger, who had been 
abroad some months. “ Yes, very readily, if you will 
come with me. I have no carriage here in waiting, as 
I arrive unexpectedly.” 

“Permit me to make further use of your kindness, 
sir,” said Mr. Laycourt, as they proceeded in their 
walk. “ I am interested in the career of this young 
man, and would like to know something about his 
present condition.” 

“ That question has been asked me often ; therefore, 
it does not surprise me,” responded the stranger. “ He 
has an excellent name, and a good credit, if he chooses 
to make use of it ; his financial standing, I think, is good, 
although he has encountered a number of reverses.” 

Mr. Laycourt’s first sensation, upon receiving this 
information, was a feeling of intense relief. Then there 
arose the thought that the letter of his son was utterly 
groundless, and written with the intention to procure 
his presence. As this reflection occurred to him, he 
stopped, and, for a moment, contemplated an immediate 
return. After a moment’s hesitation, he regarded his 
son to be incapable to resort to a subterfuge so perfid- 
ious in its nature, and proceeded onward, resolved upon 
investigation. The stranger conducted him through a 
-well-lit street, and stopped before a handsome residence, 
a prominent one of a pretentious group. Having re- 
ceived Mr. Laycourt’s thanks, the former walked rapidly 
away. 

Mr. Laycourt surveyed the house with astonishment. 
The edifice, though not very large, was erected in per- 
fect proportions, and its general architecture betrayed 
admirable skill in its design and execution. Without 
making a minute examination of the han’dsome edifice, 
Mr. Laycourt felt convinced that poverty, of unequivo- 
cal habits, would seek far less commodious quarters for 
hospitality, and would not, by a visit there, subject 
itself to a prompt conversion. He ascended the stone 

5 * 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


54 

steps, his curiosity now predominant. He rang the bell, 
and a servant appeared, of whom he made inquiry. He 
was informed that a gentleman of means resided there, 
though the servant confessed, with apparent reluctance, 
that a Mr. Laycourt had once occupied the house. 

Mr. Laycourt did not give him an opportunity for 
any lengthy communication ; but upon being informed 
that some one else resided there, he sent his card to the 
occupant, who received him with consideration. From 
the gentleman, Mr. Laycourt learned of his son’s re- 
moval, and he was furnished with a servant as a guide. 

The latter walked some distance in advance, as 
directed by Mr. Laycourt, and led him to a less fashion- 
able neighborhood, until they arrived at the last house 
of which Louis had had the ownership. This house, 
though incomparable with the one just left, was a hand- 
some Gothic cottage, and Mr. Laycourt’s fears, which 
had been reawakened by his former error, were again 
allayed. Having dismissed his guide, he gained admit- 
tance, with a similar result. The owner, however, in- 
formed him of the location of his son’s residence, and 
kindly consented to conduct him unto a point from 
which he could with ease indicate it. 

Before Mr. Laycourt’s arrival there, his apprehen- 
sions had materially increased. The rapid and notable 
changes made were in themselves sufficiently sugges- 
tive, without the confirmation of the letter ; and he 
moved rapidly towards the home of his son. 

He stood before an humble cottage, of appearance 
aged, almost dilapidated. Standing upon a large plat, 
unsurrounded by fence or building, it seemed as though 
grim want had chosen this place to serve it in times of 
seclusion. The millionaire stopped and looked upon 
the wretched abode of poverty. Fora full minute, the 
father gazed upon the home of his son. 

As he stood there, he did not observe that through 
the homely door there came a man, who rushed madly 
down another street. When he turned and saw the 
man already at some distance, he uttered an exclama- 
tion, for in the runner he recognized his son. 

; Hugh Laycourt did not hesitate, but approached the 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


55 


door and rapped. Receiving no response, he repeated 
the summons with the same result. He tried the door, 
which yielded, permitting his entrance. 

The room was lighted by a candle, which revealed 
the meagre furniture at a glance, — a bare table, two 
wooden chairs, a bed, a cradle, and nothing more. 
Hastily observing these signs of extreme poverty, he 
walked to the bed, in which lay the dying woman. The 
strong man’s frame shook as he bent over her and 
listened to her faint breathing. 

“ My daughter, look upon me,” he said. 

Constance slowly raised her heavy eyelids. 

“ I am his father,” he continued. “ But do not turn 
from me ; I did not know.” 

He stopped as Constance slowly and laboriously 
moved her arm and placed her hand into his own. His 
great self-control almost forsook him, as he looked upon 
her with unutterable anguish. Constance turned upon 
him with a beseeching expression. He felt the gentle 
stir of the hand that rested in his clasp, and raised his* 
bowed head. 

“ My daughter,” he cried, “ you must recover. You 
must live, — for him, for me. Your life will realize the 
promised hopes of heaven. Your past sorrows will 
enhance your future bliss. We will travel to foreign 
lands, wherever happiness will welcome you.” 

A tear trickled down the wan cheek of Constance. 
Her face evinced the presence of a sweet content. Her 
breathing became more faint ; a tremor shook her slight 
frame. His anxious look discerned the mournful truth : 
to her, all earthly promises were vain. 

“ My daughter, look upon my wretched face. Will 
you forgive me?” 

A smile, almost imperceptible, came to her face, a 
heavenly expression, with which she sought the pres- 
ence of her Creator. 

He heeded not how long he sat there, bent beneath 
an unsupportable weight of woe, but each passing 
moment left indelible imprints in his face and wrought 
upon his head the work of years. 


56 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


The door opened, and Louis Laycourt entered, hold- 
ing in his hand some vials. Without noticing his 
parent’s presence, he rushed to the bedside of his de- 
parted wife. In fearful trepidation, he laid his hand 
upon her heart, then first irresponsive to his touch. 
As his father turned and saw him, he beheld upon his 
face an expression that chilled his soul. The stony ex- 
pression, the cold despair of his countenance, he could 
never forget. For a long time, the stricken man stood 
thus, incapable of speech or motion. When he looked 
up and beheld his father, he started back, and, from a 
ghastly paleness, his face assumed a redness almost 
purple. 

“ You here?” he uttered, “you ” 

“ Peace, Louis,” interrupted his father. “ Your mis- 
fortune is my calamity; your sorrow is mine; my all 
is yours. Let all be as it was between us.” 

His words and his extended hand were disregarded 
by his son, who gained but a vague knowledge of their 
meaning. 

“Yours, mine?” he exclaimed. “What a glorious 
possession ! My millions could not buy one crust of 
bread for my starving wife ! What care I for wealth ? — 
for the w^orld ? — for life ? My soul is with the dead. 
W ould you have all as it w T as ? Eestore her, then, to me. 
You stand there dumb. Is it possible? so powerful, 
yet so impotent? Then is your power only great for 
evil? What is your wealth to me? My Constance is 
dead. — Constance, Constance, have you indeed left me ?” 

Upon his knees, before the bed, he uttered his mourn- 
ful words, and laid his face upon the body. Suddenly 
he arose, and, with burning eyes, confronted his father. 

“ How dare you come here now to desecrate this 
home ? You would not see me happy: why would you 
see me miserable ? A fiend is more relenting. You, 
my father? Had you done nothing more than given 
me life, you would appear to me a monster. For what 
do you seek? Are hell’s fires so slow that you must 
stir the fagots ? Stand back ; do not touch my hand. 
Hear me. May you live in happiness ten thousand 
years ; then, at the moment that you think you have 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


57 


found in life a new Elysium, live but one moment of my 
present life, share but one pang of my torments, and 
demons, appalled, will turn their sight from you to 
find relief in purgatory. Then will you share in feeble 
part my anguish ; find in despair your greatest hope ; 
your brightest dream of heaven, an endless hell ! Don’t 
turn away. Does not my fancy please you ? Go ; leave 
me ; I must be alone, — I am — O God ! — I am indeed 
alone.” 

He threw himself upon the bed, and his agonized 
soul sought relief in a storm of sobs. 

“ Father,” he cried, as the other made a movement to 
approach him, “ there may yet be time ; it cannot be too 
late; you can help her; you are good and powerful; 
bring her back to me, and let all be forgotten. Give 
her to me, father.” 

The desperate man fell upon his knees before his 
parent and grasped his hand. The latter fairly trem- 
bled with agitation. 

“You bring her back!” exclaimed the bereaved man. 
“Ha! ha! ha!” 

He stopped. His system, so heavily strained, could 
bear no more. The veins on his face swelled almost 
to bursting. The blood receded and left him ghastly. 
He threw up his head and glared wildly at his father ; 
then, with an exclamation, — a mingled sob and laugh, 
a dreadful sound which left an enduring echo in the ears 
of his father, — he rushed madly through the door and 
out of sight. 


CHAPTER X. 

All that night, Mr. Laycourt sat beside the body of 
his daughter-in-law. Scarcely less silent and motionless 
was he than was that lovely and inanimate form. He 
did not observe the dawn of day ; light and darkness 
were alike indifferent to him. 

His gloomy thoughts were at length interrupted by 
the entrance of the physician, who, bowing silently to 


58 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


the stranger, went straight to the bed, and realized 
that efforts were useless. He turned towards Mr. 
Laycourt, but, glancing at him, would not interrupt 
his gloomy meditations. 

“ Are you the physician who attended her ?” inquired 
Mr. Laycourt. 

“I am, sir,” replied the physician. “Her husband 
called me in when it was too late. I could render no 
assistance.” 

“ What, in your opinion, was the cause of her death ?” 

“ Lack of proper and sufficient food and care, together 
with the mental sufferings of one in her condition,” 
said the physician. 

“Are you quite certain that that was the cause? 
Do you not think it may have been some other cause, 
hidden and unapparent ?” 

“ It is possible, but I do not think it is so.” 

Mr. Laycourt pointed to some food in the pantry. 

“Yes, I had that sent up when I was called in.” 

“How long were they thus destitute?” 

“ That I cannot say, because no one knew it. They 
kept it very carefully concealed, for no one ever sus- 
pected such a condition of things. But she faded 
gradually ; it was a gradual decline by undue depriva- 
tion. I have told you more than I should tell, not 
knowing, only surmising, who you are ; for the secret 
which they guarded with their lives should be too 
sacred to reveal. I told it to you only as an explana- 
tion due from the physician attending her, but it is 
better that it go no further. Therefore, I wish you 
would tell no one what I have just disclosed to you.” 

“No one will ever know, if you retain the secret,” 
said Mr. Laycourt, who then informed the physician 
who he was, and paid him a very generous sum for his 
services. 

He then made arrangements to send the body to 
New York for embalming and burial, and instituted 
inquiries after his son ; but his efforts to trace him or 
obtain any clue to his whereabouts were in vain. No 
one whom he met had any knowledge or information 
upon the subject. Mr. Laycourt, though oppressed by 


59 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 

a burden, the weight of which even the dark possi- 
bilities of his son’s fate could not increase, did not 
cease his efforts. All was useless, however. No tidings 
of his missing son could be obtained. 

The cradle apprised him of the fact that they had a 
child. This knowledge produced a strong apprehension. 
If the infant lived, why had he not seen it? No, it 
must be dead. Further reflection, however, led him 
to doubt. It was apparent that, when matters had 
come to worst, his son had appealed to him. It was 
equally evident that he had not written to him before 
the letter, recently received, was indited. It was, 
therefore, a reasonable inference that the event now 
feared had not transpired. Further, he recollected 
that his son, in their last interview, had not mentioned 
his child nor coupled its name with his bitter reproaches, 
as he would undoubtedly have done had the child been 
dead. Through inquiry among the neighbors, he gained 
a positive knowledge of the existence of the child and 
its present home, and he resolved to visit Mrs. Betty 
Ledstone. 

Before doing so, he returned to New York, and has- 
tened to his home, in the library of which he met his 
wife. She started back upon his entrance, a look of 
horror on her face. 

“ Merciful Heaven !” she exclaimed. “ What has 
happened ?” 

“ What is it, Hannah ? If it is care and trouble, 
you need not prepare me; for I am prepared for all 
that can afflict me.” 

His sad words by no means relieved her of her fears. 

‘What has happened?” she repeated. “You look 
like a ghost, and your hair has turned almost gray 
since you left.” 

“ Do I carry upon my head such eloquent witnesses ? 
Believe their story, Hannah, until I tell you mine, and 
you will find how strongly their testimony is corrobo- 
rated. Hannah, she was a worthy wife, a loving, 
faithful soul. No wonder that he renounced all other 
ties and claims for her. But she is no more.” 

Mrs. Laycourt, for a time too shocked to utter a 


60 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


word, wept bitterly when she comprehended the full 
truth. 

“ She became ill, and, it seems, could not recover. 
Hannah, in death you will see her, still the angel that 
she was in life. I have sent her here for burial. Our 
son has gone, no one knows whither. He disappeared 
after her death. She left a child.” 

These were all the facts connected with the tragic 
sequel to his son’s marriage which were related by him 
to his wife. Next day, the funeral took place. 

Where is the cynic who has said that poverty can 
find no friends? Let him be answered by the great 
procession which, in stately magnificence, followed a 
starved woman to the grave. The sum expended upon 
the closing ceremonies could have averted them for 
years : a single basket almost exceeded in cost the 
humble cottage which had been her home. 

In New York, the body, first embalmed, was buried, 
beside the daughter of the Laycourts. 

The funeral past, the melancholy man returned to 

C , in quest of his grandchild, inquiries and search 

after his son being fruitless of result. 

This visit was not a matter of surprise to Mrs. Led- 
stone, who had already given the subject of his recep- 
tion considerable thought, and had adopted a certain 
method. It was, to receive him with a dignity which 
would convince him that there still existed a person of 
principle, who would not bow to erring millions, and 
only to depart from this rigorous treatment to admin- 
ister a wholesome and exhaustive lecture. So, when 
Mr. Laycourt presented himself, he met with a recep- 
tion of lofty frigidity. 

“ I am Hugh Laycourt,” he said, “the father of Louis 
Laycourt.” 

Mrs. Ledstone bowed slightly, with a studied polite- 
ness which she would never have observed towards a 
visitor more deserving in her eyes; and, finding this 
conduct attended with no immediate catastrophe, she 
was emboldened to maintain her course. 

“ Be seated, sir,” she said. “ My husband and my 
son are absent.” 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


61 


“ With you I wish to speak,” replied Mr. Laycourt, 
seating himself. “ My daughter left a child, which I 
think is at present under your care. Am I right ?” 

“ Indeed, sir!” said his hostess, “ was she your daugh- 

He felt the stinging taunt, and, for a moment, felt its 
justness ; but he was not a man to submit to reprimand 
save from his own conscience, and he waved his hand 
in quiet, though firm, deprecation. 

“We will omit all comments save those relating to 
our subject,” he said. “ I wish to gain some information 
regarding my grandchild, if you will be good enough 
to give jt. 

“ Certainly,” replied Mrs. Ledstone, trying hard to 
think of a reply. 

“ Is the child with you ?” continued Mr. Laycourt. 

“ Her mother trusted her to my care, and I have 
tried very hard to follow her wish,” said Mrs. Ledstone, 
with significance, believing that she had not yet con- 
veyed her lesson, which she would have gladly dismissed 
could she conscientiously have done so. 

“ I do not doubt it, madam,” said the visitor. “ Your 
kindness will not be forgotten.” 

If the speaker intended to hint at any reward, Mrs. 
Ledstone was certainly ignorant of that meaning ; yet 
she expressed her thanks in very few words. 

What singular influence was it that so soon reversed 
their relations, placing him in the position of dictator, 
and her in a respectful attitude ? A result which he 
could not have accomplished by endless correspondence 
nor money was obtained by a minute’s speech. A 
millionaire finds ever an attentive listener. 

“ How, madam, as you have been good enough to tell 
me thus much, tell me more. Is the child still with 
you ?” 

“ Certainly, sir. To whom could I give her ? I never 
would give her to anybody.” 

“ We will come to that presently. How, you, no doubt, 
have knowledge of my son’s recent circumstances. You 
may also know that those arose chiefly through a line 
of misfortunes which no one ever foresaw, and while I 

6 


62 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


was abroad. I can, however, provide for my grand- 
child. It is ray duty and my right to do so ; and, while 
I must respect your views, I think you will agree with 
me as to my purpose.” 

“ Do not make me give her up, sir,” said the woman, 
more impressed by his authoritative manner than his 
words. “Her mother made me promise to keep her, 
and ” 

“ Her mother never knew that I would assert a claim 
to her, and sought to procure for her a home and kind 
protectress. But you will understand that I must 
provide for her as best I can ; and, though I cannot 
put her into safer hands, I must have her under my 
care. We can agree upon the terms. Rest assured, 
your claims will not be neglected.” 

“ I want no money, sir. I want nothing but the 
child,” said Mrs. Ledstone, speaking in a tone of exhor- 
tation rather than command. “I loved the mother 
and I love the child. She let me take care of the baby, 
as her nurse, though I am no nurse. She trusted me, 
and, if I’d known how they were situated, we’d have 
shared our last crust with them ; but they never told 
any one, and I was sick and did not call on them at 
last. I loved the dear little lady with my whole heart, 
and the child is as dear to me as my own.” 

“That assurance is not requisite to convince me of 
your kindness,” returned Mr. Laycourt. “You will 
readily perceive the advantages that the child will 
obtain by residing with her grandparents, where she 
belongs. For it is not expectable that you will expend 
your all on her, while we are bound to do so.” 

“ I know, sir, you are rich, and we are poor, but ” 

“ Ho, no, were you as rich as a pope, that could make 
no difference. It is a question of blood, and not of 
money. Do you not agree with me ?” 

Notwithstanding her conflicting thoughts and emo- 
tions, a feeling of pride pervaded her breast at this 
inquiry. Prompt was her response. 

“Certainly, sir,” she said. “No one can disagree 
with you.’^ 

“ Let me see the child,” continued Mr. Laycourt. 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


63 


Mrs. Ledstone hesitated a moment, and glanced at 
the visitor. He gave an encouraging nod, and she 
went out, returning in a minute with the infant, after 
adjusting its garments. 

Mr. Laycourt patiently observed these proceedings ; 
and, when the infant was brought in, he arose and 
looked upon it with the most eager attention. He 
extended his arms, but the child turned from him, and 
threw her arms around her guardian. Countless re- 
proaches could not have affected him so keenly as did 
this act of the infant. The wound rankled him. He 
made no further movement towards the child, and Mrs. 
Ledstone seated herself beside him with her in her lap. 
A watch-guard which he wore soon attracted the child’s 
attention, and she leaned forward to grasp it. In this 
way, he succeeded to seat her upon his knee. For 
some time, he fondled her, while he conversed with his 
hostess upon his son’s past affairs, and became enabled, 
upon this information, to draw correct conclusions in 
that connection. 

“ You understand,” he said, as she retook the child, 
“that you are to name your own terms for the past 
custody of the child. I mean no offence, but you have 
been subjected to considerable trouble, and are entitled 
to remuneration.” 

“You are very kind, sir,” replied Mrs. Ledstone, 
“but I hate to give up the little darling. Will you 
let me speak to my husband first ? He ought to 
know.” 

“Assuredly,” responded the banker. “I would not 
now take the child with me. I shall then, if you wish 
to confer with your husband, remain here another day, 
and shall call on you to-morrow.” 

So saying, he arose, extended his hand to his hostess, 
kissed the child, and departed. 

After his departure, Mrs. Ledstone was in great per- 
plexity ; and, like a woman in perplexity, she sought 
to wash it away in tears. While so engaged, her hus- 
band, returning from his day’s labor, entered and in- 
quired into the causes. 

“ I had a visitor. Who do you think was here?” 


64 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


“Mary Gasbrook, to borrow another cup of tea?” 
ventured her husband. 

“No, no; she doesn’t come often, and, I am sure, if 
she does, she is welcome,” said Mrs. Ledstone. “ It 
was the rich old gentleman, the grandfather, and he 
wants to take away our baby.” 

Mr. Ledstone threw his hat upon the table in a burst 
of indignation. 

“ What business has he to come here ?” he de- 
manded. “ Does he think his money gives him all 
rights in the world? Does he think he can rob the 
world, and starve his children, and then, because he is 
rich, impose on us that ain’t?” 

“ He doesn’t seem to be as bad as we thought,” re- 
plied his wife. “ He didn’t know that they were poor. 
He was travelling.” 

“He was travelling?” repeated Mr. Ledstone, with 
a sneer. “Did he expect them to come after him, to 
tell him that they hadn’t anything to eat?” 

“No, Peter; you see the young man was rich when 
he left, and how could he know? He came at once 
when he heard the truth.” 

“ That’s a nice story, but I tell you, I don’t want 
anything to do with him,” said Mr. Ledstone, feeling 
an inward pride at the ease with which he rejected the 
advances of a wealthy man. 

“ What shall I say to him about our baby ? He 
will come again to-morrow.” 

“Say to him? Why, what can you say? He can’t 
have her. Just let me talk to him. I’d like to see 
him ask me to do it. You are too soft-hearted anyway, 
Petty, and, what’s more, you’re a woman, so he thinks 
he can impose on you. Just let me talk to him.” 

“He is coming in the afternoon, and maybe won’t 
wait to come again,” suggested his wife. 

“ Then send him word to come in the evening. Send 
Jake down to him.” 

“Jonathan may not want to go,” said Mrs. Led- 
stone, whose experience with her son convinced her 
that it was unsafe to rely upon his obedience in meet- 
ing an engagement. 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


65 


“Well, he must go,” said her husband. 

“ He may not come home this evening ; you know he 
often stays out at supper, and does not get home till 
late at night.” 

“ What does he do at night ?” 

“ I don’t know. He don’t tell me,” said she. 

“Well, it’s about time I’m finding out. There he is 
now.” 

This announcement ushered in a young man of eigh- 
teen years, attired in a neatly-fitting suit and a silk 
hat, and carrying a willow cane. In his hand, he held 
a lighted cigar. John Ledstone was his name, his 
father called him Jake, and his mother, in obedience to 
his instruction, called him Jonathan. As he carefully 
laid aside his hat and cane, and stooped to relieve him- 
self from the pressure of a new pair of fashionable 
boots, his mother gazed at him admiringly ; but his 
father was this evening in not the best of tempers, and 
spoke with some impatience. 

“Jake,” he said, “come here, I want to talk to you.” 

Jake turned towards the mirror, adjusted his tie, 
and seated himself, without glancing at his father. 

“ I suppose you want to know what I did with the 
little stake you lent me?” he said. 

“Ho, it’s nothing about money. If I am fool enough 
to give you any, you can keep on squandering it. 
Where do you go nights when you’re not at home ?” 

“ Where do I go ?” repeated John. “ That is a funny 
question.” 

“ Nothing funny about that,” said his father. “ Per- 
haps your answer will be. Come, now, I want to 
know where you go nights.” 

“ Why, where should I go ? Where other young 
men go, of course,” said John. 

“I thought so,” muttered Mr. Ledstone. “How 
Jake, it strikes me you’re going it rather young. You 
haven’t a right to go where other young men go until 
you’re a young man yourself. But that don’t tell me 
anything. Where do they go?” 

John raised his eyes in astonishment, and uttered 
the stage villain’s laugh. 

e 6* 


66 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


“Well, well,” he said, with a patronizing smile, “I 
see you want to know. Well,” here he laughed again, 
“all right, you shall know. By the way, dad, you 
once were a young man ; were you ?” Here he pointed 
his finger at his father, and broke into a fit of boister- 
ous laughter. In this his mother joined moderately, 
and glanced at her husband with a silent invitation to 
join, but he continued to look stern and shook his head. 

“It won’t do,” he said. “Jake, I’ve been thinking 
about the matter. Here I’ve gone to work and spent 
the money on you that I’d saved for years, to get you 
an education. How, after that’s done, what good 
is it? I thought all a man knows will help him to get 
along in the world, but it seems you haven’t learned 
enough to do you any good, or else you’ve learned too 
much, because you’re good for nothing. How, there’s 
got to be a change. You won’t get any more learning, 
you won’t get any more horses, and, what’s more, you 
won’t get any more money. How you can just make 
up your mind on that ; and if I say anything, you can 
bet your best girl against a load of cobs that it’s got to 
be done.” 

John glanced at his mother, who made an appealing 
nod ; and he consented to restrain his resentment, under 
the silent assurance that his mother, in her financial 
management, would not overlook his magnanimity. 

Mr. Ledstone, having completed his rebuke, seated 
himself at a table, and, after disposing of a pie and 
other victuals, arose, his good temper restored. During 
the repast, but little was said, and that between Mrs. 
Ledstone and her son. 

“ Here are a couple of dollars, Jake ; that’s all I have 
got about me,” said Mr. Ledstone, after tea. “You 
can have them, because I don’t suppose you can break 
yourself at once of your habits, and I don’t ask it of 
you. I don’t want to be hard on you, but then you 
know I ’m just advising you the best I know.” 

John took the money with an air of resentment, and, 
while his father uttered the last remarks, arranged his 
toilet. When he had concluded these preparations, he 
examined his pockets, and uttered a long whistle. 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


67 


“ By Croesus !” he exclaimed. “ Wonder what I did 
with that V? I must have left it in the vest that I 
gave the tailor to repair. Well, your two will go a 
great way to make up, and I won’t be much short.” 

While he was speaking, Mrs. Bedstone interviewed 
her pockets, and managed, unseen by her husband, to 
get therefrom some silver, which her son accepted with 
the remark that it was fortunate that she happened to 
have it. 

“Now, I want you to do something for me, Jake,” 
said his father. 

“ All right, Gov.,” said Jake, drawing out his watch. 
A glance at it produced another whistle. “By the 
fiends! I did not think it was so late. I have an 
appointment at half-past seven. Don’t think I can 
make it.” 

“ Well, it is too late, anyhow,” said Mr. Bedstone. 

“That makes no difference. I wouldn’t disappoint 
that feller for the world ; he is one of the best-natured 
fellers you’ve ever seen. He won’t kick for five 
minutes.” 

“Did you learn them expressions at college?” in- 
quired his father. 

“ There are a good many things you don’t learn at 
college that you have to know,” was his truthful reply. 

“Well, never mind. When you’re passing the big 
hotel, go in and see Mr. Baycourt, you know, the rich 
man that’s there. No, you don’t know him, either. 
Well, tell him you come from me. Tell him I’ll be at 
home to-morrow night, and he can come then.” 

“Great Goliath!” exclaimed John, “you don’t sup- 
pose that he will come here to see you ?” 

“You do as I tell you, that’s all you have to do,” 
replied his father. 

“ Well, I’ll see him, of course. I wanted to go to see 
him about some other matter anyway, and I may as 
well go now as any time. So adieu.” 

Mrs. Bedstone arose, to open the door for her son, 
and gently admonished him not to forget his engage- 
ment. % 

John sauntered down the street, but had not pro- 


68 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


ceeded many yards before his attention was arrested by 
a couple of young girls across the road. Who they 
were he knew not; and, being too well-bred to address 
them without an introduction or occasion, and too 
chivalrous to allow them to go by unaddressed, his 
only alternative was to introduce himself. Taking a 
silk handkerchief from his pocket, he made various 
fantastic motions, then winked slyly at a man with a 
dirty face whom he found observing him. One of the 
young ladies was apparently inclined to respond, but 
changed her intention because of his youthful appear- 
ance, and he chuckled at her momentary attention. 

John had not proceeded very far before a whistle 
arrested his steps. He turned, and shook hands with 
the whistler, a young man of twenty-eight ; and, upon 
Jonathan’s invitation, they were soon standing before a 
bar, ordering drinks. There they spent half an hour, 
chatting confidentially upon various intrigues, in which 
they substituted their names in place of the names of 
the heroes, upon the adventures which had not befallen 
them, and the skilfulness with which they had extri- 
cated themselves therefrom. All this time they regaled 
themselves with stimulants, upon which they expressed 
forcible eulogies. By a comparison of notes, it was found 
that Jonathan had of late been intoxicated twice as 
often as his friend ; but the latter denied this pretence 
with unfeigned indignation. 

“ You aren’t quite up to the mark, young feller,” said 
John; and his friend pleaded recent illness in extenu- 
ation. At length, John proposed a final drink for the 
time being, and remarked that he had made an appoint- 
ment with a gentleman, none other than his friend 
Laycourt, and, after redeeming his promise, he would 
return to his comrade. They shook hands with vehe- 
mence and parted. 

Having arrived at the hotel, he ordered a porter to 
conduct him to Mr. Laycourt’s apartments. The porter 
requested him to send up his card. John eyed the porter 
with a pitying gaze, uttered a scornful laugh, and drew 
out a card, which he directed him to take up without 
delay. 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


69 


Mr. Laycourt, merely glancing at the card brought to 
him, requested the visitor’s admittance. This permis- 
sion the servant conveyed to John, who remarked, with 
a sneer, that it was wonderful. 

The banker did not, as John entered, arise and 
advance with an extended hand, and John surmised 
that he must be an invalid. As the young man ap- 
proached, Mr. Laycourt inclined his head in the direc- 
tion of a chair, upon which the visitor seated himself. 
His next acts were to draw from his pocket a cigar- 
case and offer it to Mr. Laycourt, at the same time 
extolling the brand of his cigars. Mr. Laycourt waved 
his hand in declination, and inquired what might bo 
the business on which the visitor came. 

“ It is no deal in stocks, or canals, or transactions of 
that kind, because I really haven’t been able to under- 
stand the inside workings of those things,” said John. 
“ But, while we are upon the subject, will you tell me, if 
it is nothing out of the way, what you think would be 
a good investment now ?” 

Mr. Laycourt regarded his visitor with a scrutiniz- 
ing glance, then looked at the card brought up by the 
servant. 

“ I suppose you have come with some communication 
from your parents,” he replied. “ What is it ?” 

John felt he had committed an error in not pre- 
senting first the subject in which his host evidently had 
an interest, and thus relieving a natural impatience. 

“ I heard my folks talking about sending word to you, 
and so I thought I would come over and see you my- 
self about it, and ” 

“ The subject,” suggested Mr. Laycourt. 

“ Yes, you ought to know that, of course,” admitted 
John. “ That father of mine will be at home to-mor- 
row evening, and wants to know if you’ll call there. 
He works days.” The last remark was made in a kind 
voice, in which scarcely more than a trace of reproach 
was perceptible. John all this time gazed upon Mr. 
Laycourt, who during the same period perused a news- 
paper. 

“ Tell your father that I shall call upon him to-mor- 


70 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


row evening at his home. Is that all you were told 
to do ?” 

“ That is all I promised to do for them,” corrected 
John. “I have an engagement this evening, and I 
thought I would come up.” 

Mr. Laycourt was by this time so deeply engrossed 
with his paper, that he probably did not hear these 
words, and John concluded to accept this inference as 
the only apology which he could conceive. He felt in- 
clined to feel angry with Mr Laycourt, but he thought 
that perhaps the newspaper contained some bad tidings, 
— probably a heavy depreciation in stocks held by the 
hanker, or something of that nature, — and was generous 
enough to forgive what he thought to be a slight in- 
attention. 

“Well, I won’t be able to see you again,” he said. 
“ Let me see.” He took out a note-book, and examined 
it attentively. “ Yes, I have too many engagements to 
think of it. So I’ll bid you good-by, and a pleasant 
trip. I expect to be in your city after a little, and, if 
I can manage it, I’ll come around to see you.” 

To this John probably expected no reply, and he was 
not disappointed. He would not believe that it was 
Mr. Laycourt’s deliberate intent to affront him. He 
imputed his conduct to a custom probably prevailing 
among bankers in the manner of their reception, and 
resolved to profit by this example. 

He left the room, and walked through the hotel with 
an air of satisfaction, which revealed to the persons who 
saw him that his negotiations with the banker had been 
conducted with harmony and to a highly satisfactory 
conclusion. He thought he detected an increased re- 
spect in the mien of the porter whom he had first 
accosted and ’who now accepted a ten-cent piece from 
him, and probably in this he was not mistaken. He 
then had his boots blackened by a large boy, with whom 
he maintained a conversation upon theatres and politics 
until the work was completed, when he started off, to 
observe his engagement. 

He re-entered the saloon which he had visited pre- 
viously in company with his friend, and looked about 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


71 


for the latter. In the saloon were several tables, around 
which were seated some men, politicians, gamblers, and 
various other occupants, drinking and discussing poli- 
tics ; for, by a strange fatality, these two things have 
been reduced to a state of mutual dependency. A 
Congressional election was approaching, some candi- 
dates were present and liberal, and all agreed that they 
must have an honest government, that what they needed 
was reform ; and their manner left no doubt concerning 
its necessity. After a brief search, John discovered his 
friend listening to these moralists, and, like the majority, 
greeting their harangues with boisterous shouts of ap- 
proval. John tried to enter into the full spirit of the 
occasion, but was unable to do so without imbibing 
some liquor ; and, having observed this preliminary, he 
became enabled to discuss politics with equal ardor and 
intelligence. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Mrs. Bedstone was, upon the day following the 
events narrated, in great perturbation of mind. Her 
first resolve had been to refuse Mr. Laycourt’s request, 
with an emphasis which would preclude all hope for 
revocation, but this resolution had been shattered by 
the disadvantages of her position in her interview with 
that gentleman. How, however, that the influence of 
his presence was no longer a factor in her reasonings, 
she considered the subject in its true aspect, and was 
enabled to arrive again at a conclusion. She thought 
that the circumstances under which the infant had 
come into her possession precluded the idea to sur- 
render it now to its grandfather. But she decided to 
avoid an open Contest with a gentleman who, in ad- 
dition to inexhaustible resources and a natural claim, 
was possessed of a disposition which promised perpetual 
warfare ; and she, therefore, resolved to avoid all show 
of antagonism. Having again determined upon her 


72 


BERTHA LAYCOTJRT. 


course, and with the danger of yielding presented by 
her late experience, she prepared herself to act firmly 
upon it. 

Mr. Ledstone had expressed his intention to speak 
first with the visitor, and this privilege was accorded 
him without any contest. 

John decided to be present. He had accepted an in- 
vitation to a party for the evening ; but, as Mr. Lay- 
court had evinced so strong an inclination to listen 
with careful and respectful attention to whatever he 
had to say, he would remain at home during the visit, 
and attend the party later. To this arrangement his 
father consented upon condition that he have nothing 
to say, and not make use of too many words in saying, 
it. After some demur, John promised in the same spirit 
in which he had in the past made general promises of 
good behavior, reserving all judgment as to the proper 
times and occasions. 

“I am glad you will be at home, Jonathan,” said 
his mother to him, in an undertone, “so that we can 
have your advice and you will be satisfied. Would 
you please hold the baby for a minute, while I fix my 
hair?” 

“I don’t want to take the kid,” said John, looking 
resentfully at the infant, who returned the look with 
a stare equally ill-bred. 

“ You must excuse me for asking you to do that,” 
said his mother. “If I wasn’t in such a hurry, I 
wouldn’t; but never mind. I’ll put her in the cra- 
dle. Would you mind giving that a start once in a 
while?” 

John had already placed himself in the position 
which he observed Mr. Lay court to occupy the pre- 
vious evening, and his mother’s query elicited no re- 
sponse. Mrs. Ledstone glanced at him, uttered a 
slight apology for the preferment of her last request, 
and summoned her servant-maid, to whom John im- 
parted some information upon dancing. 

Mr. Ledstone here entered, and asked his son where 
he had been the night before, but found him in an 
uncommunicable mood, and could glean from him no 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


73 


definite information. John remarked that a young 
man leads a pretty wild life, after all, and that it were 
best to leave some things unsaid, and then relapsed 
into an indifferent silence, — an acquisition which his 
mother already regarded with admiration. 

When Mr. Laycourt arrived, he shook hands with 
Mrs. Ledstone, and with her husband, after their in- 
troduction. To John’s surprise, his presence was un- 
noticed by the visitor, and he awaited an opportunity 
to attract his attention. 

Mr. Ledstone purposed to exhibit, in this matter, for 
the benefit of his wife, a masculine firmness, and cer- 
tain sentences had engrafted themselves in his memory 
so deeply that they now eluded all pursuit; therefore, 
he sought relief in commonplace remarks, until Mr. 
Laycourt introduced the subject which supplied the 
occasion for his visit, while holding the child upon his 
knee. 

“ Mr. Ledstone,” he said, “ your good wife has prob- 
ably communicated to you my wishes and intentions 
regarding my grandchild ?” 

“ Yes, sir,” was the reply of Mr. Ledstone, who, for 
some reason unknown to himself, did not wish to dis- 
turb the pleasant relations subsisting between himself 
and his visitor. 

“ I wish to repeat that I desire no better home for 
her than this, nor can I furnish any ; but it is my 
duty to provide for her.” Mr. Laycourt paused, and 
glanced at Mr. Ledstone. 

“ Certainly,” said the latter. “ I don’t see anything 
strange or out of the way about that, Betty.” 

Betty eyed her husband, an impatient expression 
upon her face. The conclusion to which she had come 
was that it were best that the child remain with her, 
for a time at least ; and, for the execution of this plan, 
she had calculated upon the assistance of her husband, 
confidently, in view of his expressed intention. Now, 
as she witnessed the desertion of her ally, her resent- 
ment against him created in her a firmness which 
enabled her to take a determined stand. 

“ I think it best, sir,” she said, “ that you let us have 
d 7 


74 


BERTHA LAY COURT 


our baby until she gets a little older, so she can choose 
for herself.” 

“You forget, madam, how very young the child is, 
and how long an interval must elapse before she at- 
tains an age when she can exercise a choice. At 
present, I must choose for her.” 

“ But she is a delicate little thing,” urged Mrs. Bed- 
stone, “ and, I must tell you, she cannot live without 
good care from one who understands her, as I do.” 

“ I think you are right,” replied Mr. Laycourt. 
“ Moreover, a child should be reared among children. 
We have none, and she would meet few playmates at 
our home. You were, for a time, virtually her nurse, 
and probably, kindly disposed as you are towards her, 
you will guard her more carefully than would any 
governess whom we could employ. Therefore, I think 
it best that she remain with you at least two or three 
years.” 

Mrs. Bedstone expressed her unfeigned delight and 
gratitude. 

“ But,” continued Mr. Baycourt, “ I would like to have 
her where I can attend personally to the furtherance 
of her welfare; she is my grandchild, and her claims 
will not be disregarded. I would, therefore, be obliged 
to you if you would remove to the city. Such a step 
will necessarily entail great loss, which, of course, 
must be met by me. Bo you think that you can do 
it ?” 

Mr. and Mrs. Bedstone were so greatly surprised by 
the proposal that, when the speaker paused for their 
reply, they were unable to make any. John, who had 
been sitting in silence, now felt constrained to volun- 
teer an opinion, and this opinion, like all gratuitous 
advice, met with little favor. 

“ You would be a fool if you wouldn’t,” was his re- 
mark. 

His father was too deeply absorbed to take notice 
of this comment; but his mother, who listened eagerly 
to the words of her son, was immediately possessed of 
a predilection for the enterprise. At length Mr. Bed- 
stone spoke. 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


75 


“I have lived in this town so many years, that it 
would be like commencing a new life to live anywhere 
else,” he said. “ I ain’t rich, but I have made some 
money here, and 1 can get along in this place, and I 
don’t know how it is in New York. I have been there, 
but only for a few days at a time. If I move anywhere, 
I want to go west.” 

“ You need not decide this evening,” said Mr. Lay- 
court. “ I remain here until noon to-morrow, and 
intend to call in the morning. You can then inform 
me.” 

After bidding them good-night and caressing the 
infant, he started towards the hotel. 

After his departure, an animated discussion arose 
among the members of the family. Both husband and 
wife were at first reluctant to advance any opinion, 
each waiting for the other to do so ; but John ex- 
pressed himself without equivocation. He could not 
see what difference it could make to old folks where 
they lived, while to a young man with ability, a great 
city offered all the advantages which insured success. 
But it would be “just his luck” if his parents decided 
to reject the offer, for he never did have a chance such 
as other young men have. 

“What do you intend to do when we go to New 
York ? v inquired his father. 

“Do?” repeated John. “A great many things. 
There are a thousand ways for a young man to make 
his fortune in a large city. A small place is good 
enough, to eat and drink in, but give me New York 
to live.” 

“ I haven’t lived in this world so many years for 
nothing, Jake,” said his father, “and I will tell you 
this: a man who needs a certain place to get along 
in will never find it.” 

“I have heard men talk before, and I know what 
that amounts to,” said John, “and of course I cannot 
convince you that you are mistaken unless I get a 
chance ; but you can try and prevent me as much as 
you can, sooner or later, I will get it.” 

“Jake,” said his father, “this thing has got to end. 


76 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


You’ve been talking a long while about what you can 
do and what you are going to do ; and so far you’ve 
only been showing what you can’t do. Now you’ve 
been at home here, having everything you want, and 
still you’re always complaining. You are welcome to 
stay as long as you like ; but, if you think you can do 
any better by yourself, why, I’ll give you a start, and 
go ahead.” 

John listened to the former part of this speech with 
supreme indifference, but the offer of available means 
embraced by the last remarks attracted his attention. 
He felt convinced that his future success was assured ; 
for, though he had not yet made choice of the path 
through which this result could be secured, there were 
so many means by which others bad amassed fortunes, 
that to restrict himself to a single choice seemed 
absurd. At all events, he peered sufficiently far into 
the future to know that the advance of his father 
would enable him to subsist in comfort, as long as any 
portion of it remained. His reply, therefore, was made 
without deliberation. 

“ That’s a go,” he said. 

Mrs. Ledstone, who was regarding her son as eagerly 
as though the fate of nations were dependent upon his 
answer, grew pallid when she heard it. 

“No, Jonathan, you will not leave us at a time when 
we need your advice and help most,” she said. “ Your 
father just wanted to try you, but I know your feelings 
are much better, more refined than his.” 

John uttered a loud laugh, and sought to pull a 
moustache of which he vainly endeavored to take hold. 
Mr. Ledstone, however, was grave. 

“No, it is about time now to strike a new road, and 
the sooner, the better. We’ll arrange that in a few 
days. Now we have something more important to 
think about. What shall be done ?” 

This was not a problem presenting ordinary difficulty 
of solution. They had been married in this little city, 
had spent in it their past lives in contentment, and, in 
the bosom of the place which chronicled their history, 
slept two of their children. Thus the project of a 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 77 

change was encountered by memories in the form of 
an impediment almost insuperable. 

“ Then again, you must recollect,” said Mr. Ledstone, 
“ that here I have made a living and always will, and 
there I don’t know anybody. Of course, the rich man 
makes big promises, but there is a heap of difference 
between remembering a promise and forgetting it ; and 
then again there is as much difference between remem- 
bering it and keeping it. I suppose he means what he 
says. But suppose that, after we are there, he thinks 
he has no further use for us, or suppose he dies. No, 
Betty, it won’t do. A man, to succeed, must rely on 
himself.” 

These were the thoughts which Mr. Ledstone ex- 
pressed upon the subject. Among those not presented 
was the reflection that Mr. Lavcourt would not in 
any event allow their negotiations to close without 
providing some remuneration, which ought, conform- 
ably to scriptural mandates, to be proportioned to the 
means of the giver. It is true, the question presented 
itself to him in a different phase : why should he receive 
pay for a duty which, at his own request, would be 
granted to him as a favor, and which he would cheer- 
fully assume without compensation ? This view gave 
rise to some moral scruples, which, though predestined 
to live but a brief existence, created in the mind of 
Mr. Ledstone so much embarrassment in connection 
with their removal, that he finally dropped the subject. 

This was, then, the determination which they an- 
nounced to Mr. Laycourt the next day. 

“Will you listen to me, sir?” said Mrs. Ledstone to 
him. “We know that you are rich and powerful, and 
that you can take our baby from us whether we want 
you to or not. But I don’t think you ought to or will. 
A babe must have much care from somebody who has 
experience, or it will grow up sick, or bad, or something 
wrong. Bertha is a delicate child. I was her nurse and 
know her perfectly. Leave her with us for a few years, 
until she is old enough to go to school, and then take 
her to your grand home, and train her as a lady.” 

From this reasoning, Mr. Laycourt did not dissent. 

7 * 


78 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


Furthermore, he had anticipated, in the way of the 
execution of his project, an opposition which he was 
prepared to overcome, and the harmonious manner in 
which matters had progressed to this stage rendered 
him pliable to entreaty. It was, therefore, arranged 
in accordance with Mrs. Ledstone’s suggestion. Mr. 
Laycourt then approached the question of their com- 
pensation. 

“ Mr. Laycourt,” said Mr. Ledstone. “ I am a poor 
man, but I claim to be an honest one for all that. Mow, 
you see, we asked you to leave the baby with us. If 
you do that, that is enough. We don’t ask any money 
to keep what we want to keep without it. Besides, 
we don’t want you to suppose that we want the child 
to make money out of it, but we love that child as 
much as if she was our own.” 

“ I understand your scruples, sir,” said Mr. Laycourt, 
“ but you have had your wish to keep the child gratified, 
and I shall exercise my right in this matter. So long 
as she remains with you, you will receive one thousand 
dollars per year.” 

Mr. Ledstone, as a matter of form, uttered the usual 
expostulations, which were abruptly terminated by 
Mr. Laycourt’s announcement that he desired to leave 
upon the first train ; and, having expressed his obliga- 
tions for their kindness to hia children, he embraced 
his little grandchild with true affection, and walked 
slowly away. 

Next day Mr. Ledstone received a letter, the first for 
many months; and in it were enclosed some unpaid 
notes, covering a portion of the money borrowed to 
purchase his home, and his mortgage. All these 
papers'were cancelled. From whom they came was not 
revealed, but it required no oracle to inform them that 
the donor was their late visitor. 

John, who had in the mean while urged their imme- 
diate departure for New York, was seen at home but 
little the next two days ; and, when at home, he main- 
tained a rigid silence, symbolical of a stately indifference. 
Several times, his mother approached him with ex- 
treme delicacy, and inquired anxiously with regard to 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


19 


his health and financial condition. He answered in 
aggrieved monosyllables, and, in his reticent mood, 
placed the money proffered by her into his pocket with 
only a silent protest. Mr. Ledstone paid little heed 
to his son, and, singularly enough, his regard for him 
decreased in the same proportion in which his wife 
exalted him. 

Towards the close of the second day, John’s frigid 
face commenced gradually to thaw. After tea, ho 
seated himself upon a sofa, with a genial smile on his 
face, and offered his father a cigar, which was accepted. 

“I’ll tell you what it is, father,” he said, “you talk 
about your rich men, and see how they get to it, and 
you can only wonder that we weren’t rich long ago. 
You can take my word for it, it is as easy as eating 
pie.” 

Mr. Ledstone shook his head dubiously. 

“ You don’t know,” be said. “ You’ve tried one, but 
you haven’t tried the other. When you come to try, 
you’ll find that your experience with pies — though 
great, I won’t deny — won’t be of much benefit.” 

“You don’t understand me,” said John. “I had a 
long talk with Laycourt, and he told me some things 
about business that I didn’t know exactly. He told 
me of one of his operations that he is carrying now. 
I tell you, if I had the money, I wouldn’t want any- 
thing better than to go in with him.” 

“What was it?” inquired his father. 

“Well, I’ll tell you, though I don’t know as I ought, 
because our talk was rather confidential ; but it is all 
right. He is going to run a corner on steamships.” 

“A corner on steamships 1” exclaimed Mr. Ledstone, 
Who desired to obtain information rather than to reveal 
his ignorance upon the matter to his son. 

“ Exactly ; I thought I would surprise you,” replied 
John. 

“But does he think he can succeed?” queried Mr. 
Ledstone, speaking with calm deliberation, as though 
he were considering the feasibility of the enterprise, 
with a view to embarking in it. 

“There is no doubt of it,” said John. “Of course, 


80 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


there are some difficulties, but we considered them fully, 
and, I tell you, it will work.” 

Mr. Ledstone sat a minute in silence and puffed the 
smoke of his cigar contemplatively. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ it might be done. But how does 
he intend to work it ?” 

John drew his cigar from his mouth, looked towards 
the ceiling, and assumed a look of profound sagacity. 

“You see, the way they do these things,” he said, “is 
this : in the first place, you must have the right kind 
of law passed by the legislature. Of course, that takes 
money, and you have got to work that fine. Then, 
after you have done that, you go to work, buying and 
selling ships, just whenever you think best, and pocket 
the money. That is simple enough.” 

After this lucid explanation, John uttered a chuckle 
of satisfaction and eyed his father triumphantly. Mrs. 
Ledstone was charmed by an acuteness which sur- 
passed her comprehension, and a moral doubt, moment- 
arily entertained by her, was succeeded by a general 
reassurance. Her husband concealed his perplexity 
beneath his continued silence ; and John felt his victory 
to be complete. 

“ He is a shrewd one, is old Laycourt,” he said. “ He 
understands in a minute what you are driving at. I 
gave him some fine pointers, too.” And John, turning 
towards his mother, winked significantly. 

“ I believe it,” she said, in all sincerity. 

To cast no shadow upon the pleasantness of their 
present relations, he did not mention his contemplated 
journey ; and before he started from home, to meet an 
engagement, his purse had undergone replenishment. 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


81 


CHAPTER XII. 

Little Bertha Laycourt made such satisfactory 
progress, mental and physical, with the Bedstones, that, 
whenever Mr. Laycourt visited them with the inten- 
tion to remove her, they prevailed upon him to leave 
her with them for another brief period ; and the result 
of their care was observed by him with much satisfac- 
tion. With the passage of time, his visits became more 
frequent and more lengthy. Sometimes he brought 
Mrs. Laycourt with him; but, a portion of the time, 
she was an invalid. 

Bertha’s temporary guardians, regarding her with an 
affection no less than parental, treated her with even 
more care and consideration than they would have 
bestowed upon her if she had been their own child, to 
avoid a violation of the trust reposed in them. Even 
John, who would not compromise his manliness so far 
as to acknowledge a predilection for a child, invested 
some of the hard earnings of others in gifts for the 
child, and at times rocked her cradle when not re- 
quested to do so, remarking, in explanation of this sin- 
gular conduct, that he owed it to his friend Laycourt, 
who had assured him that the advantages conferred by 
their friendship would not be altogether one-sided. 

The amount which Mr. Laycourt stipulated to pay 
came with regularity in quarterly instalments, and the 
Bedstones expended a sufficient portion of it to procure 
for the child all necessaries and reasonable luxuries. 

When she began to speak, great was their delight. 
The sound of her first footsteps was music to their ears, 
and, when she had made sufficient progress in that direc- 
tion to justify the attempt, John, in the intervals among 
his engagements, undertook to teach her the art of 
dancing. 

At an early age, Bertha displayed a great love for 
books and for tearing their leaves ; but the Ledstones 
were not a literary family, and in this connection 

/ 


82 


BERTHA LAY COURT 


afforded her only incidental diversion. Against news- 
papers and dress-patterns, she entertained a particular 
aversion, and observed a scrupulous care to leave no 
recognizable fragments of them. Scraps of wall-paper 
served as a cloth for her table, and of each new chair and 
sofa she preserved a relic. 

Another noticeable attribute was her executive abil- 
ity. She was often informed of the duty of obedience, 
acknowledged the correctness of the principle, and paid 
no further attention to it. Being eminently successful 
in the management of her own affairs, she resolved to 
extend her control to the concerns of others, and 
assumed the functions of government without the for- 
mality of an election. At times tractable, they could 
coax her into compliance ; but usually their bribes, 
though accepted, proved unavailing. 

Such a system of government would naturally pro- 
duce some disorder in their domestic arrangements. If 
Mrs. Ledstone desired to sew, she was restricted to the 
time at which Bertha had no use for thimbles. To read 
a paper, Mr. Ledstone was compelled to forego his pref- 
erence for latest dates; and John, to preserve the invi- 
tations of which he felt so proud, had need to institute 
a vigorous search for the fragments. When they dis- 
covered the tea-can in the yard and filled with fertile 
soil, they knew Bertha had chosen a site for a luxu- 
riant garden. Mrs. Ledstone had a bonnet which 
caused her to blush with pleasure every time she denied 
the friendly remark that it made her look like a young 
girl. After mature deliberation, Bertha determined to 
destroy this bonnet, and proceeded to effect this pur- 
pose before she had time to change it. Mrs. Ledstone 
was a woman, and a mortal being, as she afterwards 
confessed ; and, being such, shed copious floods of tears. 
In these expressions of sorrow, Bertha joined, and mani- 
fested such sincere repentance that all might have been 
forgotten had she not repeated the offence. Mrs. Led- 
stone would probably not have punished Bertha had her 
own life depended upon it ; but in her exasperation she 
would have placed her into a dark closet for an hour 
had she not failed to obtain Bertha’s consent to this 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


83 


project. As it was, she contented herself with saying 
that she was a naughty little girl, an assertion which 
Bertha indignantly denied. 

Probably the heaviest sufferer through her despotic 
rule was Jonathan, their tastes being in continual con- 
flict. Upon the evening of a reception which he desired 
to attend, he selected for his adornment a handsome 
white tie, to which she deemed it necessary to impart a 
variety of colors. He bought a pair of white gloves, 
which he found, the evening of a ball, in a jar of jam. 
There was no one but Bertha whom he could charge 
with the guilt, and she denied connection with it. He 
glanced at her suspiciously, and she returned his glance 
with a look of scorn. The only object upon which their 
tastes were in accord was a silk handkerchief, in which 
he took especial pride and which she thought would 
make her doll a nice dress. Subsequent events con- 
firmed her opinion. The keenest pang felt by John, 
however, was occasioned by her ingratitude. He would 
not have been more generous towards her if his own 
labor had yielded her his presents ; yet, after the first 
burst of gratitude, she was inappreciative. He bought 
her an artificial menagerie, a part of which she trans- 
ferred from the ark to his new boots as more commodious 
quarters. A young lady’s counterfeit, cherished by him, 
was, with the brushes of Bertha, transformed into a 
warrior ready for battle, as nearly as the artist’s design 
could be gathered from the valentine. His escritoire 
and letters gave evidence that they did not suffer 
through her lack of attention. 

Neither Mr. Bedstone nor his wife was capable to 
exercise much strictness. When Mrs. Bedstone spoke 
harshly to Bertha and saw her run from her to her 
indulgent husband, her feelings suffered a keen pain, 
and the childish lispings of affection for him caused 
her to weep. Had she been their own child, she would 
have been less sensitive, but, feeling towards her all 
the love and extending all the care which could have 
been accorded to their own offspring, the thought that 
she might at any time be taken from them steeled her 
hold upon their hearts. 


84 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


From her father, no tidings were received, and the 
child did not know that the Ledstones were not her 
parents. 

One day, Mrs. Ledstone had a visitor, in the person 
of a sailor, who stated that he had formerly resided in 
the vicinity of the city, and had had friends, concerning 
whom he made inquiries. Some of these she answered, 
and upon others she referred him to her husband, who 
would be home towards evening. Having obtained 
her permission, the sailor awaited Mr. Ledstone’s 
coming. While Mrs. Ledstone pursued her domestic 
duties in the kitchen, the stranger went upoa the 
ground that surrounded the house, until he encoun- 
tered the little girl, who was engaged in play and paid 
no heed to him. 

“ Come here, my little baby lass,” he said, “ I bringed 
you — I mean I brought you something all the way 
across the sea.” 

So saying, he held up a curious toy, at which Bertha 
looked for a moment in doubt, then she advanced very 
cautiously. 

“ Is it mine ?” was her first inquiry. 

“ Yes,” he replied ; but, after he had persuaded her 
to accept it, she refused to remain beside him, and 
retreated. His kindness and bribes at length won him 
a brief attention, during which she informed him of 
her age and other personal matters upon which he 
inquired with great interest. The child’s replies, he 
appeared to commit to memory. During the day, he 
spent most of his time with her, constructing houses 
for her dolls, nests for imaginary birds, and other 
works suggested by her variable fancies. 

He was constrained to return to his vessel before 
Mr. Ledstone’s arrival. Before going, he expressed 
his gratitude in his own way, with many grammatical 
errors and corrections; and, stooping, kissed Bertha, 
despite her protestations. 

Mr. Laycourt visited his grandchild frequently, but 
never without taking with him the most attractive 
toys that a diligent search could discover, and thus 
made sure of a courteous and eager welcome. Each 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


85 


time, he manifested an intention to remove her. It 
was only through various serviceable devices, that they 
succeeded to retain her until her sixth year, at which 
time his will would brook no more delay. His wife 
accompanied him upon several occasions, and shared 
his impatience and desire to remove her. 

“ Do not take her from us, sir,” pleaded Mrs. Led- 
stone. “ I wish I had a child of my own to give you 
instead, if you would take her. I cannot bear to let 
her go. You don’t know how we love her. When she 
does things that Peter whipped our boy for doing less 
when he was young, he takes her in his arms, and pets 
her till she thinks she is an angel; and so she is.” 

“ I know well how good and faithful you have been 
to her,” said Mr. Laycourt. “ But, if I tell you why I 
take her now, you will not oppose my determination. 
Her grandmother and I are all alone in the world. 
All relatives for whom we cared are dead, or have gone 
to parts unknown to us. We must have a companion. 
I know what you would say. For pay we can procure 
many. But no ; all the companions which money can 
provide are not worth to me a touch of this little hand 
upon my shoulder.” He stooped to pick up a dainty 
slipper that had fallen from the child’s foot, and re- 
placed it. 

“ Let her stay with us another year, six months, — 
and then we won’t ask any more,” prayed Mrs. Bed- 
stone. 

“ Madam, your wishes ought to be sufficient, but I 
have already deferred this step several times, com- 
pliant with your request. The child is now old enough 
to go to school, and ought to be with us. I renew my 
offer. If you will come to Hew York, you can see 
her. as frequently as you please.” 

Since the time Mr. Laycourt had first made this 
proposition, circumstances had wrought a change in 
their desires, which influenced their actions. At that 
time, they were confronted with a proposal which 
would entail a total change of life, a wider separation 
from their dead children, to view whose tombs afforded 
a degree of consolation, and all to execute a charge 

8 


86 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


which they, with quiet conscience, might have relin- 
quished to the claimant. Now, however, a change had 
gradually transpired. The little girl, accepted at first 
partly through a humane sympathy, upon the loom of 
time had woven around their hearts a web in whose 
firm stitches she was evermore entwined. Over their 
hearts she exercised a paramount sway, and their de- 
parted children bore' to her but the same relation in 
which a sad and tender past stands to a bright and 
jojmus present. Thus it was that the proposal, for- 
merly rejected, was but an echo of their own desire, 
and, somewhat to Mr. Laycourt’s astonishment, they 
embraced his offer with avidity. 

This result having been attained, Mr. Laycourt con- 
sented to leave Bertha with them until the time their 
arrangements for departure were completed. 

“I have a house, which, though somewhat small, 
may prove to be a satisfactory place for your resi- 
dence,” said Mr. Laycourt. “ My steward will make 
all arrangements necessary to have it in a habitable 
condition upon your coming.” 

After Mr. Laycourt’s return to the city, Mr. Led- 
stone did not require much time to complete his prep- 
arations. He accepted a fair bid for his property, 
and, in a few days, informed Mr. Laycourt, by letter, 
of his readiness. 

John was delighted with the prospect. He had, upon 
several occasions during recent years, visited New 
York City, but his stay had necessarily been brief. 
Upon his return, in answer to an inquiry of his 
parents, he stated that he had not seen Mr. Laycourt ; 
that that gentleman had called upon him at his rooms 
in the hotel at a time that he was unfortunately absent, 
and had left a card and an invitation, to which he, 
John, had not had time to respond. All his ambition, 
not devoted to his personal appearance and to the 
ladies, was centred upon a permanent residence in the 
metropolis. 

Let it not be supposed that Jonathan had spent all 
this time in idleness. The remonstrances of his father 
that it was time to do something were remarks to 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


87 


which he gave no serious attention, and which his 
father never attempted to enforce. But one day, to 
the astonishment of his parents, he announced his 
intention to adopt a profession, and his choice of law 
as the means by which he would mount the lofty pin- 
nacle of fame. But, in calculating the distance from 
the base to the summit, he made no allowance for in- 
termediate steps. In short, to descend from the meta- 
phorical to the practical view in which the matter 
afterwards presented itself to John, he had forgotten 
to glance at the lessons, which he would otherwise 
have recited with admirable fluency and success. He 
attended the college of law regularly whenever he had 
no otner engagements. Mrs. Bedstone feared that, 
after so many years of diligent study, the additional 
mental strain imposed upon him might produce brain- 
fever, and it was, presumably, to allay his mother’s 
fond anxiety that his visits at college became gradually 
more infrequent. As a result, at the examination, he 
discovered that his studies were not, like his creditors, 
to be avoided with impunity; and, notwithstanding 
several fortunate guesses, he failed. 

“I couldn’t help it,” he explained to his parents. 
“ They happened to ask questions that had slipped from 
my mind, and on things that are not worth remember- 
ing anyhow. Some of those fellows that passed do not 
know half the law that I do, when it comes down to 
that.” 

“ I know it,” replied Mrs. Bedstone. “ But, Jonathan, 
don’t you think that the teacher was prejudiced against 
you? I think so, because I noticed he gave you all 
the hardest questions.” 

“ Yes, that had a great deal to do with it, no doubt,” 
said John. “And then I was in hard luck. I have 
had streaks of luck where I could never win a single 
deal. If this examination had taken place any other 
time, you can bet all you’ve got, it would have been 
different:” 

“We didn’t use to rely on luck when I went to 
school, though little schooling I got,” remarked Mr. 
Bedstone. 


88 


BERTHA LAYCOTJRT. 


“How can you talk like that, Peter?” queried his 
wife. “ Schools to-day are not what they used to be in 
your time.” 

“Ho; if they were, they would be good places to 
keep away from,” added John. 

“ Take care,” admonished his father; “you know I’m 
dangerous when you get me mad.” 

“ Jonathan, you must not speak like that to your 
father,” said Mrs. Ledstone; and* her husband, having 
found a champion, relapsed into an indignant quietude. 

“He began it,” said Jonathan. 

“ But he is your father, and you must give in some 
to him,” said Mrs. Ledstone; then shrank back timidly, 
to await the result of her novel attempt at correc- 
tion. Gratified to perceive no calamitous ctfects, she 
continued : “ As I was saying, schools are altogether 
different now from what they were in your time; 
especially a law-school.” 

“ You never were at a law-school, and know nothing 
about law,” added John. 

“ Yes; but I didn’t have to go to law-school to find 
that out, like you did,” replied his father. “ I tell you 
what I think about it : you don’t work hard enough.” 

“ How can you say so ?” queried Mrs. Ledstone. “ I 
have been afraid all along that Jonathan was studying 
too hard and it would break down his health.” 

“ You needn’t worry about that ; he’ll never die from 
working too hard or knowing too much.” 

“ It isn’t those who go fastest that get there first,” 
was John’s sententious reply. “ If you should go to 
the races, you would see that the horse that gets the 
best start does not always win.” 

“And if you’d go less to the races, you’d know more 
about your lessons. The horse that gets the best start 
don’t always win, that is so ; but the horse that stays 
in the stable while the race is going on can never win.” 

“ Well, I cannot stop to talk any more about it now ; 
I have an engagement,” said John ; and forthwith made 
his exit. 

When it became known to John that the family pur- 
posed migration to Hew York, he expressed his satis- 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 89 

faction with much enthusiasm, and predicted progress 
in his studies there. 

And he will keep his word,” said his mother, “ for 
that is one thing I can say of Jonathan, he never breaks 
his word.” 

One day, they boarded a train for Hew York, and 
after a pleasant day’s ride, they arrived at the metropo- 
lis. They were at once assailed by a score of hackmen, 
whose offers of cheap conveyance displayed a striking 
contrast to their intentions ; but Mr. Ledstone required 
no carriage. John looked about him, apparently sur- 
prised to find no vehicle in waiting for him. There was 
one waiting for them, however, by the order of Mr. Lay- 
court. That gentleman’s steward accosted them, and 
conveyed them to the house provided for them. 

It was a small brick house, newly painted a bright red 
color, and presented a cosey and inviting appearance. 

A week later, they were established there comfortably. 
Mr. and Mrs. Lay court drove up to see them, rendered 
valuable assistance in the line of suggestions, and an- 
nounced their wish to remove Bertha to their home. 

“ I’ll tell you what we can do, if it will please you, 
sir,” suggested Mrs. Ledstone. “ If you want to take 
her now, of course you have the right to do so. But 
can’t we leave it to the dear little thing herself? Let’s 
let her choose her home.” 

“ We can’t do that, madam, for you have an advan- 
tage which a child so young will not disregard. At 
present, she knows but this home ; when she will be 
at our home for a time, perhaps she will grow equally 
attached to that. That will be a proper time to make 
the test. At all events, we. do not purpose to keep her 
from you.” 

Both Mr. Laycourt and his wife brought Bertha 
costly gifts ; and, treating her with all kindness, they 
succeeded to ingratiate themselves in her favor to an 
extent which begot the jealousy of her guardians. 
Then, when they, thus prepared, asked her to come 
home with them, and promised that she would at all 
times be at liberty to return, it was with no reluctance 
that she accompanied them. 

8 * 


90 


BERTHA LAYCOTJRT. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

When Mr. Laycourt first told Bertha that he would 
take her home with him, and she, going to the door, 
saw the handsome equipage which was to be the means 
of her conveyance, she clapped her hands in delight. 
She did not note the sad expression upon Mrs. Bed- 
stone’s face, when that lady bade her good-by, nor 
the fervency with which the prayer for her speedy 
return was uttered. Bertha evinced an eagerness 
which no words could exaggerate, and even caused 
her grandparents to haste beyond the bounds of strict 
decorum. 

For the first time in her life, Bertha was seated in 
a carriage; one far more handsome than the vehicles 
at which she had been wont to gaze with childish 
longing. As it rolled on, past scenes of ease and 
splendor, her position underwent a constant change, 
and her expressions of delight attracted much attention. 
But the elderly couple, regarding her with looks of 
warm affection, did not attempt to check her ardor, 
and were content to retain her little hands. 

Not until they arrived before the princely home of 
Mr. Laycourt did Bertha take occasion to address them ; 
but when they paused in the avenue which led to his 
stables, and she beheld, in the mansion and its grounds, 
the first gorgeous spectacle which she had ever viewed 
at close range, she opened her pretty mouth in pleased 
astonishment. 

“You don’t live here, grandma?” she said. 

“This is our home, my little darling, and is now 
your home,” said Mrs. Laycourt; and she held the 
little girl, to prevent her jumping from the carriage 
upon a flower-bed. Several times before they alighted 
from the vehicle, at Bertha’s request, did her grand- 
father bid the driver wait, while the footman gathered 
some flowers which struck her fancy. 

Thus did the child first enter the home whose portals 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


91 


had been closed so rigorously against the mother. The 
massive gates, that had barred the mother’s ingress 
with barriers inaccessible, displayed a yielding spring 
beneath the touch of her child. The thorns which had 
lined Constance’s path had yielded, under the skilful 
hand of time, to exquisite beds of roses. 

In the mansion, every one, from Mr. Laycourt to his 
humblest servant, was attentive to the child, and none 
of her childish requests to which reason could yield 
compliance was left unsatisfied. 

But, if she received much, a hundredfold would have 
been the veriest mite to that which she in time be- 
stowed. To the lonely couple, she was a priceless 
solace and companion. It gave to them a different 
view of life ; for, while before they had begun to look 
upon their future to be but the uncertain close of lives 
already past, they now lived a contented present. 

A little cot, richly covered, in Mrs. Lay court’s boudoir, 
served as Bertha’s resting-place that night, Mrs. Lay- 
court declining the aid of a maid, and herself waiting 
upon her. Before retiring that night, Mr. Laycourt 
sat beside the bed for hours, and watched the sleeping 
child. 

Next morning, when Bertha awoke, a waiting-maid 
attended her and dressed her. She had always been 
well provided for ; and, since she had removed to the 
metropolis, the presents of her grandparents had as- 
sisted the Bedstones to keep her in approved style; 
but now Mrs. Laycourt, unrestrained, procured a fash- 
ionable dress-maker, whose services in the future enabled 
Bertha to surpass the dreams of many girls born to 
poverty. 

The first day had been spent by the child in admira- 
tion almost mute; the second day, her feelings found 
her tongue of useful service. During breakfast, indeed, 
timidity was still noticeable in her; but the methods 
of her grandparents soon dispelled her embarrassment, 
and at luncheon she demonstrated to their satisfaction 
that fasting was not one of her accomplishments. In 
the afternoon, they conversed with her concerning her 
future residence. She did not for a moment imagine 


92 


BERTHA LAYCOTJRT. 


that it lay in her power to decide, nor even by her de- 
sires to influence, the determination of this question, 
until Mrs. Laycourt, taking her little hand, inquired : 

“Now, darling, will you stay?” 

The little girl assented joyously, and, in her promise, 
included her foster-relatives. 

But Mr. Laycourt, though he maintained silence 
upon the subject, did not, in the latter respect, share 
her pleasurable anticipation. He did not like to offer 
the Ledstones positions in the capacities of servants, 
even should they accept them ; for to deprive them of 
their independence were but a poor return for their past 
kindness. He proposed rather to repay his debt to 
them by exerting his influence in their favor, and he 
had in fact placed Mr. Ledstone in a satisfactory 
employment. For John he had also sought to do some- 
thing in the path of advancement. 

That ambitious student, having discovered that a 
neglect of studies leads to no beneficial intimacy with 
them, resolved to practise without the formality of an 
examination. To preclude the inquiry if he could do 
this, it is sufficient to state that he never had an oppor- 
tunity to try. However, John, having thus resolved, 
Mr. Laycourt secured a desirable office for him, fur- 
nished it handsomely and purchased some books. John 
intended to preserve these gifts as keepsakes ; but, in a 
moment of need, forgetting all about this intention, 
he sold them, and for a brief time bid defiance to the 
tailors who refused him credit. 

Thinking the matter over subsequently, Mr. Laycourt 
felt that the presence of the Ledstones would compli- 
cate matters, by reason of the relationship existing 
between the child and them. Bertha did not entertain 
a suspicion of the truth, nor thought else than that she 
was the daughter of that worthy couple, though she 
did not yet comprehend the exact relation subsisting 
between the Ledstones and her grandparents. From 
Mr. Laycourt’s silence she inferred that all details had 
been arranged with her parents and gave herself no 
further concern in the matter until evening, when she 
began to wonder why they had not yet arrived. Then 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


93 


it was that Mr. Baycourt explained to her that her 
parents were not to reside with her, but that she could 
visit them as often as she chose, and they would visit 
her. But she was not satisfied. The little girl was 
suddenly bereft of gayety, and saw the vanishment of 
pleasures which the kind guardians of her past could 
not share with her. Even this thought did not oppress 
her spirits long, however, and soon she was again romp- 
ing about in childish happiness. 

But the next day, after playing some time, she was 
found weeping by her grandmother, who divined that, 
notwithstanding her magnificent surroundings, she was 
homesick. The lady appreciated the fact that the 
separation of the child from her past associations, to bo 
accomplished wisely, must be done gradually; and, 
ordering the carriage, to convey them to the Bedstones, 
she convinced Bertha that their promises to her were 
intended to be binding. 

When the carriage was near the cottage, they saw 
Mrs. Bedstone at the door, gazing anxiously at the 
approaching vehicle. She uttered a joyous exclamation 
when she recognized the child, and ran to meet her. 
She drew her from the carriage to her heart, and, 
having invited Mrs. Baycourt into the house, carried 
the little girl thither. 

Mrs. Baycourt busied herself in an examination of 
some handiwork of her hostess, while the child re- 
counted her adventures to her patient auditor. While 
Bertha ran about in her old haunts, Mrs. Bedstone 
spoke earnestly to her visitor. 

“ Of course, you’ll tell her all, ma’am,” she said, — 
“ that we are not her parents and that we have no claim 
upon her ; but let her come to see us, for all that.” 

“ Do not doubt it,” said Mrs. Baycourt. “ It may 
not be necessary to tell her for a long time, until she 
will be able to understand. Then she will also com- 
prehend her obligations towards you, and she will 
require no moralist to prompt her to her duty.” 

“ You are so good to us,” said Mrs. Bedstone. “ One 
thing more. If ever she is sick, let me come to her at 
once. I was her nurse and know her and can ’tend 


94 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


to her better than anybody. I will do everything you 
want ; but send for me.” 

“ You have my promise,” said Mrs. Laycourt. 

“ Thank you a thousand times. Mow i have asked 
you so much, let me ask one thing more. Leave her 
here this night, that Peter can see her, for he is terribly 
lonesome for her, more even than I am. This might 
be the last night for a very long time she’ll stay with 
us ; and I’ll explain to her that we want her to live 
with you, — that is, that it’s best for her, and so we 
want it ; and then she won’t feel sorry that she left us.” 

In view of this promise, Mrs. Laycourt readily com- 
plied with her request and promised to send the car- 
riage for her next day. 

Peter Ledstone was never so agreeably surprised as 
he was that evening when, upon entering his door, 
little Bertha, with a joyous laugh, sprang into his 
arms. Even Jonathan’s face lit up with pleasure when, 
coming home, he saw her there. 

The visit of Bertha was fruitful of result ; for it not 
only relieved them of an oppressive heart-sickness, but 
convinced them that the pleasures of her future calls 
would be in a measure retrievous. 

Mext morning, the carriage again was there, and 
Mr. Laycourt drove Bertha to her home, in which she 
was thenceforth established as controlling mistress. 

The change of her name from Ledstone to Laycourt 
aroused no suspicion in her mind. Like many public 
officials, she thought that a change of name was justi- 
fied by a change of location. 

Each day seemed to endear her to her grandparents. 
She visited her supposed parents daily for a time, and 
later, when attending school, at less frequent intervals; 
and they could not find cause to reproach her with 
neglect, nor to charge her with childish inconstancy. 
Whenever illness, however slight, overcame her, pur- 
suant to her prayers, Mrs. Ledstone was sent for, and 
attended her with faultless fidelity ; nor did she deem 
the neglect of all other duties to entail a sacrifice. 

She sometimes marvelled at the singular circum- 
stance that, while the home of her grandparents 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


95 


lacked no luxury which a critical taste could suggest, 
her parents’ house presented a so striking contrast to 
it. She inquired of her seniors concerning this state 
of affairs, and was informed that the Ledstones were 
welcome to come and live with them any time they 
chose, but that they preferred their own home. Yet, 
as Bertha grew older, these explanations did not satisfy 
her. She could not always be kept in ignorance of the 
truth. The formal and respectful manner in which 
the Ledstones addressed her grandparents, and the ab- 
sence of any sign of intimacy, made her recur to this 
subject until her grandparents found it necessary to 
enlighten her concerning her true relationship so far 
as a revealment was practicable. She listened with 
the interest which such a recital must awaken ; and, 
having heard, burst into violent sobs. 

“ What is it, my little dear ? why do you weep ?” said 
Mrs. Lay court. 

“ Oh ! I don’t know. I don’t know. Take me to 
mamma; do take me to mamma!” she begged, her 
sobs yielding to a plaintive weeping. 

It was a truthful answer. She did not know ; yet, 
as she sat at her grandmother’s side, she had a strange 
feeling of pain. Mrs. Laycourt took her upon her lap, 
and tried to comfort her; and, in her arms, at length, 
the child fell into a peaceful slumber. But she soon 
awoke, and begged so earnestly to be taken to Mrs. Bed- 
stone, that her grandmother did not defer compliance. 

Mrs. Bedstone was as much surprised as overjoyed 
at the warmth with which Bertha sprang into her 
arms upon their meeting; nor was she less startled 
when the little girl, usually sprightful and animated, 
laid her head in her lap and wept as she had never 
seen her weep. 

“ She knows all,” said Mrs. Laycourt. 

The arms of Mrs. Bedstone dropped to her side and 
her face flushed as she placed Bertha upon the floor, 
arose and hastily strode the room. Then she addressed 
Mrs. Laycourt. 

“ Was it not enough,” she said, “ to take our darling 
from us, but you had to tell her this ? I knew you 


96 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


would. Who are we, poor, ignorant people, to claim 
the love of your grandchild ! But you are charitable ; 
you brought her here again, to say her last good-by 
to us.” 

During this speech, Bertha was standing quietly by, 
awed by the strangeness of the woman’s mood. For- 
merly she had seen her kind, yielding, and compliant. 
No less amazed was Mrs. Laycourt at this bitter out- 
burst; but she was woman enough to respect the feel- 
ings which thus sought expression. 

“ You err,” said she, “ if you ascribe to us an un- 
worthy motive, or think that Bertie could ever have 
learned the truth save through the inevitable cause. 
Far greater is your error if you suppose that we sought 
to detract from your claims upon her. See how she 
runs to you, as fondly as ever.” 

Mrs. Bedstone extended her arms as Bertha came 
to her, and shed a flood of tears in which there was 
naught of bitterness perceptible. 

“Forgive me, dear madam,” she said, “you have 
always been so kind to me. She had to know, and yet 
you came at once to me, to show me that I’m not for- 
gotten.” 

Mrs. Laycourt extended her hand, which the other 
took and pressed to her lips. 

“You will still let her come to us?” she pleaded. 

“ As often as she likes,” replied Mrs. Laycourt. 

No change did this knowledge produce in Bertha. 
It was not as though she had been transferred suddenly 
from a resort of poverty to the home of plenty. Nor 
did her affection for the Ledstones wane. It cannot be 
said that, at her tender age, she acknowledged or even 
suspected their claim upon her gratitude; but what 
sudden transpirement can overcome the effects of a 
child’s daily associations? For a long time, she did 
not even think to inquire as to the identity of her real 
parents, nor, when she did, learned more than that her 
mother lay beneath the tomb which she had already 
visited in blissful ignorance of that knowledge. 

At this time, Mr. Laycourt received tidings of his 
son. The information came from a friend sojourning 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


97 


in India. It was his painful duty to inform the banker 
that he had discovered his son, who had taken passage 
upon a steamship bound for Australia. The ship had 
foundered off the coast, and no survivor lived to relate 
the woful mishap. The bodies had not been recovered. 

A cold sweat settled upon his brow as he read. He 
inclined his head, and sat in frigid silence. When his 
wife entered an hour later, she found him in the same 
attitude and irresponsive to her call. The interruption 
served to restore his self-possession. 

“Hannah,” he said, “I have at last had tidings of 
our boy; and it is as we feared. He has gone to join 
one who was more faithful to him than were we.” 

The information had not been unanticipated by her 
since her son’s mysterious disappearance, but the shock 
struck her with dreadful force. Her worst fear was 
now realized. A moment she stood there, gasping for 
breath, then sank to the ground, and her shuddering 
form became motionless. 

A fever followed. Bertha went in great alarm to 
Mrs. Ledstone. A no more faithful attendant could 
have been summoned ; and, though there was no lack 
of professional aid, no one was more attentive than 
was she. 

During this time, Mr. Laycourt remained about the 
house, and exchanged scarcely a word with any one. In 
deference to his mood, the physicians made their reports 
upon his wife’s condition without question from him. 
His little grandchild he would take upon his lap and 
caress in almost perfect silence. She alone won from 
him a word or look. 

Mrs. Laycourt recovered partially from her illness ; 
but her nerves, theretofore already weakened, were 
shattered ; and, with each recurring attack of disease, 
her powers of resistance diminished. So conditioned, 
she was assailed by a severe cold, and the Laycourt 
mansion was again in mourning. 


e g 


98 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Bertha was placed by her guardian in a seminary. 
It is to be feared that her dresses excited more envy 
than did her success in studies, the virtue of the for- 
mer being to the many more apparent. Of the exist- 
ence of this feeling, she was utterly ignorant, never 
having suspected the matter of dress to be referable to 
any agency other than taste. In consequence, her 
deportment in this respect was so natural and un- 
assuming, and in such marked contrast to the conduct 
of another child, whose father had succeeded to an in- 
heritance, that envy soon yielded to admiration, her 
friendship was eagerly sought, and she was not at 
school very long before she had a large number of 
friends. It was soon made clear to her instructors that 
she was a child of no mean capacity, and her progress 
was satisfactory. Her wilful ness alone could give of- 
fence; but, being ever ready to oblige, her friends 
conceded to her a certain right of command ; and, her 
grandfather’s wealth insuring her a reprehensible in- 
dulgence, she received a course of treatment far from 
desirable. But upon her, fortunately, this circumstance 
did not exert its usual effect, for she was by no means 
unduly aggressive, and her proneness to rule was as- 
cribable to habit rather than natural disposition. As 
her power increased, its exercise diminished. 

Her home was not the place which it had been at 
the time she had first entered it. Her presence had 
infused new life and character to her surroundings, and 
Mr. Laycourt had re-entered upon his former active, 
business career. 

She continued to visit the Bedstones, not with former 
frequency, but affording no occasion to serve as a basis 
for a just complaint on their part ; and she still ad- 
dressed them as her parents. 

******** 

Jonathan Bedstone often wished to be a millionaire, 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


99 


but in vain. Perhaps every one, in an eccentric mood, 
has entertained a similar wish, desiring to join that 
noble body of philanthropists to demonstrate the bless- 
ings of wealth, properly employed. For to so superla- 
tive an extent does charity now dominate the human 
soul, that the most benevolent acts of the rich are 
exceeded by their poor neighbors’ intentions ; and it is, 
therefore, regretable that, as there are only two con- 
stituent elements of benevolence, intent and action, the 
two cannot exist together in peace and harmony. Mr. 
A, the magnate, has scarcely sufficient means to execute 
Mr. B’s charitable designs ; but, when accident trans- 
fers A’s wealth to B’s pocket, singularly enough, their 
ideas form part of the exchange. In truth, the sole differ- 
ence in this regard between the oppressive rich and the 
magnanimous poor is the possession of money. If there 
are in human affairs any elements concerning which an 
observer can furnish reliable statistics, they are the 
principles of human motive and action in this regard. 

Jonathan, after being engaged for some time in not 
practising law, — an occupation which appeared to him 
neither profitable nor liable to change, — determined, as a 
means of extrication from his financial difficulties, to 
marry an heiress. From this course, he shrank at first 
as unworthy of him. Further reflection, however, con- 
vinced him that it was not unworthy of him, and he 
resolved to do it. It remained but to procure the con- 
sent of a young heiress ambitious to wed a young man 
without means, ability, or reputation ; and upon this 
quest he started with sanguineness. 

One day, accident rendered him a participant in a 
romantic occurrence. Upon a rainy day, he was walk- 
ing the streets, which were as slippery as politicians, 
when he beheld, at a crossing, a pretty young girl 
named Maggie, who slipped at an unfortunate moment 
and would have been killed by an approaching vehicle 
had not the driver checked his horses. This done, 
Jonathan sprang fearlessly forward to the rescue. In 
doing so, he lost his foothold and fell into the mire; 
but that was unimportant ; the rescue had been effected. 
The usual acquaintanceship arose between them and 


100 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


resulted in the usual love. They exchanged the vows 
and promises of eternal faithfulness incidental -to the 
occasion. 

At this time, he was introduced to a young heiress, 
conforming in all respects to his expectations. He 
felt that he could not forsake his beloved Maggie, but 
eventually concluded to try, and offered the heiress his 
hand and heart, both of which were promptly rejected. 

Jonathan, not at all downcast by this refusal, re- 
turned to Maggie, whom he had not visited for several 
days. She sprang into his arms with a cry of joy. 

“ Oh, Jonathan !” she cried, gazing lovingly into 
his eyes, “ some one told me — I heard — I can hardly tell 
you what.” 

“ Tell me, dearest, what was it ?” demanded Jonathan, 
drawing himself up to his full height. 

“ They told me that you had left me ; that you love 
another.” 

Jonathan uttered a laugh of scorn ; and, with curling 
lip and flashing eye, gathered her more closely in his 
arms. Thus reassured, the happy girl exchanged with 
her lover sentences of holy love. 

Two days later, he called again, and found the house- 
hold in a state of consternation. It transpired that she 
had eloped with one of two young men ; the particular 
one, her mother was unable to designate with certainty. 

Fully convinced that no reliance could be placed upon 
women, he resolved to remain a bachelor, and to ac- 
cept five hundred dollars, tendered by his father upon 
condition of his immediate departure for the West. 
The latter project encountered Mrs. Ledstone’s vigorous 
opposition. 

“ Ho, Jonathan,” she said, “ you won’t go. The best 
men in our country all had the same trouble to start in 
with, and you have a brighter future before you than 
any of them. But you must have a little patience. 
You’re too pushing; you must wait.” 

Notwithstanding these irrefutable arguments, Jona- 
than went west, a step which proved to be the most 
successful one of his life. 

Jonathan was a handsome young man, possessed a 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


101 


general misinformation on the topics of the day, and 
was endowed with a pleasing address. In view of 
these facts, it is not strange that he soon succeeded to 
secure the hand of a young heiress, who had deter- 
mined never to marry for money, but to choose a man 
whose natural attributes could beget her respect. Her 
choice of Jonathan, therefore, proved her requirements 
to have been no more just than reasonable. 

For some time, Jonathan declined to touch a penny 
of his wife’s fortune, but persisted in leaving it in 
her name, until his means and credit were exhausted. 
Faithful to his antenuptial promise, he took his wife 
abroad and provided for her all entertainments and 
comfort which his taste could suggest and her money 
could procure. Mrs. Jonathan, who had never been in 
Europe, found a very valuable guide in her husband, 
who recounted remarkable adventures that had tran- 
spired during his former visits there, and explained to 
her the nature of objects and sights that would other- 
wise have remained mysteries. He would have re- 
mained abroad permanently had not his wife insisted 
upon living among her friends in the place where he 
had met her; and thither they repaired. 


CHAPTEE XY. 

It may he well to pass over the first years of 
Bertha’s school-days, her triumphs and vexations, her 
friendships and disappointments. Up to the time that 
early childhood’s days could be viewed b} 7 her in retro- 
spect, it appeared as though nature had designed her 
career to be one of perpetual happiness and entirely 
free from care. 

During her course at school, among the friends 
gained by her, was one with whom her friendship 
proved of lifelong duration. This was one of her earliest 
classmates, Esther Horthwood, the daughter of a mer- 
chant of fair, though by no means affluent, means. 

9 * 


102 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


Together the two children conducted their childish 
sports, in common the two young girls pursued their 
pleasures; and ever the two friends were trustful con- 
fidantes. When Esther was thirteen years of age, her 
father succumbed to a disastrous fate in business, and 
Esther, despite the protestation of her parents, re- 
nounced the benefits theretofore enjoyed by her and 
declared her intention to leave school. Bertha sought 
to dissuade her; and found it no difficult task to obtain 
her grandfather’s consent to defray the expenses of 
her friend’s education. This proposition was broached 
to Esther with extreme delicacy, but she proved un- 
yielding to persuasion. Usually mild and flexible in 
disposition and purpose, she now proved obdurate, 
and they parted ; but Bertha’s purpose did not desert 
her. 

“ G-randpapa,” she said, as she sat beside him, with 
her hands resting on his knee, “ I want to — I have 
something to ask — I have a favor to beg ” 

“ Why do you hesitate, my pet ?” inquired Mr. Lay- 
court, stroking her head, which she had laid upon his 
knee ; and, raising her face, he discovered her embar- 
rassment. 

“ What occasions your confusion ? Need you ask 
vainly for anything which I can give?” 

“ But this is so much, so awfully much,” said Bertha. 

“ Let not that deter you,” said Mr. Laycourt, unable 
to divine her wish. “ You would ask of me nothing 
which I cannot grant; anything else is already granted. 
It is yours to take.” 

Bertha, thus encouraged, proceeded : 

“ Esther has stopped school. You know why, — her 
father failed — I think sho called it — in business. She 
said it was on account of money ; ho had not enough 
money, she thinks. You are so kind to every one, 
grandpapa ” 

She stopped ; and, before she could resume, he spoke. 

“ You want me to help him ?” he inquired ; and, with- 
out awaiting a reply, continued : 

“I do not maintain the wisdom of such a course. I 
cannot judge without some knowledge of the facts; 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


103 


but I shall ascertain, and, if you then still desire it, 
your wish must be gratified.” 

Not often can there be found on the part of a man, 
however wealthy, a readiness to bestow, upon request, 
the most insignificant portion of his wealth. But into 
Mr. Laycourt’s mind there entered certain considera- 
tions that elicited an unhesitating assent. To retain 
her affection was his paramount wish, and any request 
which he would deny her must indeed be unreasonable. 
Such a one she had never yet preferred ; hence his 
unhesitation. 

The inquiries instituted by him developed the fact 
that, while Mr. Northwood had been unfortunate, his 
condition could be imputed to no dishonorable act or 
motive, and it required no excessive outlay to relieve 
him. Mr. Laycourt informed Bertha of this result and 
sent for Mr. Northwood. Having obtained from him 
the information requisite, he advanced a sum sufficient 
to relieve him. This money, Mr. Northwood promised, 
in all sincerity, to repay, and, at the request of his 
creditor, allowed his own convenience in the future to 
name the date of repayment. The aid thus proffered 
Mr. North wood, coming from a quarter entirely unex- 
pected, occasioned him a delightful surprise ; for what- 
ever business connection he had had with Mr. Laycourt 
had been of an indirect character, and the men who 
had realized profit from dealings with him and from 
whom he had expected succor were his most determined 
and relentless tormentors. His wife with difficulty ac- 
credited his story, but Esther was at no loss to divine 
the instrument employed by fate for their amelioration. 
Very little was said between the two young girls, when 
next they met, upon the subject, for Bertha, when she 
heard, expressed her delight with her grandparent’s 
action, as though it were her first knowledge of it; 
but they understood each other, and, when Esther re- 
turned to school, their friendship gave no sign of dimi- 
nution. 

Bertha Laycourt proved to be a girl of neither slow 
discernment nor dull comprehension, and in the studies 
in which her interest could be actively enlisted she 


104 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


made rapid progress. It is unnecessary to state her 
course of studies ; for a volume may render a wise man 
learned, while a library cannot instruct a fool. But, 
when the study of painting was broached by her grand- 
parent, the young girl yielded with a reluctance which 
she could not entirely conceal. Her guardian thought 
that her ideas in this regard would in time undergo 
some modification, and allowed the matter to remain 
dormant for some time, but eventually renewed the 
subject. 

“ Bertha,” said he, “ common school studies alone can 
never make an accomplished lady; and, if you have 
any such ambition, it is time that you learn this truth : 
success is the result of effort.” 

“ I know it, grandpapa,” said Bertha. 

Who ever saw a girl in her early teens who does not 
know all that a sage can teach ? 

“ Ah ! so you do ; I had forgotten that,” replied Mr. 
Laycourt. “ But, Bertha, all of us know enough, did 
we but turn our knowledge to practical advantage. 
There is not a man but is good for more than he ac- 
complishes. 

“ It is now time for me to adopt a more effective 
means to interest you in this art,” he continued. “ It 
is useless to appeal to reason in behalf of an art so 
largely the product of invention. It must excite your 
imagination. Heretofore, you have seen practically no 
paintings outside of our own collection, which have 
not attracted your attention, because, as you have 
seen them since early childhood, they have become to 
you merely a part of your surroundings, exerting a 
salutary influence upon your taste, but lacking the 
attraction of novelty. How I shall take you to stu- 
dios and art-museums ; and, having then in mind the 
special purpose to inspect these works, you will seek 
for that which you will not fail to discover. More- 
over, a worthy production excites the wish to pro- 
duce.” 

Upon this idea, Mr. Laycourt acted, taking Bertha 
to the worthiest places suitable to his purpose, indi- 
cating meritorious works, and explaining origin and 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


105 


intent, as well as the interesting careers of some of 
the artists, with an indubitable result. 

The instructor engaged by Mr. Laycourt for her was 
an excellent artist, a fact to which his share of human 
ignorance did not extend ; and Bertha informed her 
school-mates : “ He thinks there was no sun or moon 
until he painted them.” 

Bertha, with proper instruction and assiduity, was 
soon enabled to execute a painting which, when done, 
she viewed with admiration. The plaudits of her 
friends confirmed her good impression, which, to her 
amazement, was not shared by her preceptor; for, 
though his words were by no means discouraging, he 
hinted that, in order to fly, one must needs be pur- 
posely winged. Bertha beheld with open-eyed resent- 
ment the many alterations which he saw fit to make, 
and thanked him with an icy politeness. 

Like most girls, Bertha loved to read novels and 
made injudicious selections. She did not believe these 
books to be histories of real life, because she felt con- 
vinced that in reality there are no false lovers or schem- 
ing villains. At all events, she had never seen one, — 
as an object so repulsive, if seen, could not have es- 
caped recognition. Often she wished herself in the 
place of a poor, helpless girl, who, in addition to her 
other misfortunes, figured as the heroine of a sensa- 
tional novel. 

She felt a great curiosity to behold romantic per- 
sonages, and often wondered why their existence is so 
much rarer than their description. In the prosecution 
of her search, she observed each new-comer eagerly, 
and her failure cannot be ascribed to a lack of zeal. 
Once she thought that, in her grandfather’s messenger- 
boy, she detected the quiet, gentle, though determined 
youth who supported his blind parents with touching 
fidelity, and imagined that at some future day he would 
be her grandfather’s partner, when his sudden discharge 
for cause, by order of the latter, rendered his chances 
too remote for further consideration. Again, she im- 
agined the handsome young man who occasionally 
walked past with an erect carriage and a fearless ex- 


/ 



106 


BERTHA LA Y COURT 


pression of countenance to be the man who had sworn 
to possess his love, whatever would betide, until he was 
discharged by a friend on the ground of stupidity. 

Upon hearing that a young man in some friend’s 
employ was charged with crime, she divined that some 
deep conspiracy had been devised by his enemies, an 
opinion which he professed to share but which he 
could not impress upon his judges. When she heard 
of a young heiress maltreating her governess, she felt 
confident that their positions would some time be re- 
versed, overlooking the fact that the change, when made, 
would probably not extend to deportment. 

For some time, Mr. Laycourt observed her reading 
without mention, thinking that the power to read well, 
like all sciences and arts, must be acquired gradually, 
but overlooking the fact that a garden can be culti- 
vated more readily upon bare soil than if overgrown 
w r ith thorns and thistles. But, noting that indulgence 
of this morbid desire tended only to habitual dissipa- 
tion, he concluded to remonstrate with her. 

“ Bertha,” he said, “ I am sorry to observe that you 
have acquired a practice which I must condemn. It 
is your reading of some worthless books among the 
works read by you. I tell you, my child, we must 
consider this subject seriously, for here are people 
railing against drink, game, and other vices, and this 
pernicious production escapes with scarcely more than 
an occasional censure, though it is by far the worst of 
all these evils.” 

Bertha opened her eyes in astonishment. 

“ Why, grandpapa,” she said, “ you call writing these 
novels worse than drinking or gaming ?” 

“Far worse, because effecting worse results, and 
caused by persons of intelligence. The liquor question 
affects men, whose characters are formed, while books 
affect children, whose natures are developing. I wish 
you would not read them, my dear.” 

“Yery well, grandpapa,” she said. “I would not 
read that kind of books anyhow. Grandmamma read 
the same books that I read.” 

“ Grandmamma was an old woman,” he said. “ A 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


107 


blow destructive to an acorn falls harmless on an oak. 
I know that you mean to improve by reading these 
books, and I do not like to interfere with your amuse- 
ments ; but I am older than you are and know whereof 
I speak. If you want to read, come to the library, and 
make a worthy choice.” 

It was for a time a severe struggle for Bertha ; but, 
having promised, it was not a matter of hesitation. 
Moreover, her grandfather exercised his authority over 
her so seldom that, when he did so, his request re- 
quired no collateral support. Of course, she doubted 
the justice of his sweeping condemnation of the mere- 
tricious works which infest the land, but his purpose 
was accomplished, and he saved her thus early from 
injury almost irreparable. 

Bertha devoted much time and attention to the 
flowers and plants in the conservatory and the garden. 
Their former gardener was constrained by age to resign 
his position, and one day a stranger was engaged to fill 
the vacancy existing. Though not so skilful in his 
work as was his predecessor, the gardener’s bearing, 
quiet and gentlemanly, was a strong recommendation ; 
and Bertha assisted as before in the labor. At times, 
when she assumed work liable to detain her some time, 
his own part was apparently prolonged, and once or 
twice she found his eyes fixed upon her with a strange 
expression ; but he was so polite and unassuming, that 
she attached little importance to these discoveries. 

One day, the third after his retention, she was stand- 
ing beside him, and arranging some flowers, when he 
laid his hand caressingly upon her shoulder. She 
stepped quickly back and looked at him in surprise. 
He raised his hat, and bent his crimson face; but, 
before he could utter a word, Mr. Laycourt, who had 
witnessed the presumptuous act, stood before him, his 
finger pointing to the door. 

“ Go, fellow,” he said. “ Never again be seen upon 
my premises.” 

11 Sir,” began the gardener. 

“ Begone !” commanded Mr. Laycourt ; and the gar- 
dener, bending his head in submission, raised his eyes 


108 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


once more to Bertha. His look betokened no feeling 
of resentment or humiliation, — naught but a sad re- 
gret; lower and lower, he bent his head; then, turn- 
ing, with a slow and dignified step, he walked away, 
pausing only once, to hear her plead in his behalf. As 
he retreated, he turned several times and looked at 
Bertha. Mr. Laycourt, taking her hand, led her into 
the house. 


CHAPTER XYI. 

Bertha Laycourt was thirteen years of age when 
she was engaged to be married, — an age which afforded 
ample time for future consideration and regrets. This 
event, varying to a considerable extent from her ex- 
pectations, was of sudden occurrence. 

The most intimate friend of Mr. Laycourt was Mr. 
William Berwood, a gentleman of wealth and influence. 
For generations, the Berwoods had been a wealthy and 
respected family, and the present energical head of the 
house seemed bent on maintaining its prestige. His 
efforts in that direction were not confined to his own 
person, but extended to the next generation, repre- 
sented by one son, Harold. 

While Harold was still a child, Mr. Berwood became 
a widower ; but, with a fortune in possession, and sur- 
rounded by disinterested ladies, it was impossible that 
he could long remain one. Spinsters, who had never 
before lost any sympathy from its natural recesses, 
lamented bitterly his loss. Widows wept for him, with 
a touching unselfishness, more freely than they be- 
wailed their own bereavements. Young girls mani- 
fested their sympathy by plaintive sighs. Even mar- 
ried women, with matured sons and daughters, and 
therefore above the suspicion of interested ness, uttered 
womanly words of condolence, and imparted much ex- 
cellent advice concerning the rearing of his little son 
and the inestimable value of a mother. The world 
never leaves exposed a wound that can be healed by 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


109 


sympathy. It casts its cold neglect alone upon the 
prosperous and happy. 

Among the suitors for his hand, was a young lady 
who had been an intimate friend of the late Mrs. Ber- 
wood. Her beauty and stateliness won her the con- 
tempt of a vast number of ladies in her social circle. 
Before the death of her friend, she had been engaged to 
a young manufacturer, but death wreaks many changes, 
and it soon became known that the engagement no 
longer subsisted. Mr. Berwood never took steps to 
ascertain the verity of these rumors. 

Eventually he married a lady of culture and intelli- 
gence, with whom he passed a contented life for several 
years, until she succumbed to a fatal malady. The one 
child left by her did not survive her long. 

Thenceforth he had no one but Harold upon whom 
to bestow his care and affection, and to him he devoted 
much attention. 

Harold was sent to a public school. For a time, he 
objected very strenuously, but his father disregarded 
his objections. His course at school was very credita- 
ble to himself, and at college, to which he was next 
sent, he conducted himself in the same satisfactory 
manner, so far as mental progress was concerned. 

But his conduct in other respects was not equally 
gratifying; and, from the beginning of his career at 
school, his teachers preferred complaints against him. 
In explanation to his father, he ascribed these com- 
plaints to malice, but failed to convince him of the cor- 
rectness of his suspicions. 

One of his chief offences was fighting with much 
success and often without provocation. There were 
instances of disputes incited by him without any cause 
or purpose other than his own enjoyment. Another 
ground of complaint was his gross insolence. He con- 
tradicted his teachers more readily than he recited his 
lessons, denied that it was impertinent to do so, and 
made counter-charges against them. 

These offences and misdeeds were reported to his 
father, who, after several mild attempts at correction, 
resorted to more severe measures, as other means 

10 


110 


BERTHA LAVCOURT. 


would not avail. To assure him that a persistence in 
his course would not render him a great man did not 
disturb his ambition. He was not a favorite among 
his fellow-pupils, who felt relieved when his father re- 
moved him for a time. 

Contrary to general expectation, time wrought a 
change in his behavior, thus fulfilling his father’s pre- 
dictions. 

His career at college proved him to be a young man 
of high endowments. At times, Mr. Berwood received 
hints of his son’s indulgence in pleasures to the ex- 
tent of dissipation and the neglect of study, but these 
reports were received by him with a discrimination 
which admitted neither their entire truth nor absolute 
falsity. 

While at college, Harold expended a vast amount of 
money, more than could possibly have been required 
for his own use. Mr. Berwood, after maintaining a 
lengthy silence upon the subject, occasionally remon- 
strated with his son and threatened repeatedly to di- 
minish his supplies, each threat producing less effect 
in the order of its succession. This threat was finally 
executed, and Harold found himself encumbered with 
debts which he had no means to liquidate. To say 
that he was incensed would be a mild portrayal of his 
feelings ; and it is probable that he would have disin- 
herited his father, had their positions been reversed. 
While he was devising means to pay his creditors — for 
he would no more have deprived his friends of property 
than life — his father paid his indebtedness and sought 
to have an understanding with him. 

“ You are not so simple as to suppose that I acted 
with a view to economy,” he said. “I should have 
no objection to your course, did your expenses arise 
from your own wants or desires, but you squander on 
your profligate friends more than they could otherwise 
possibly expend, and, if you ever become poor, they 
will be the first to vaunt your folly in this regard in 
explanation.” 

Before their meeting upon this occasion, Harold had 
determined to provide for himself; and, alone and self- 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


Ill 


reliant, to become a millionaire; but bis subsequent 
conversation with his father and a recollection of the 
latter’s generosity lent cogency to the counsel im- 
parted. In consequence, he observed his father’s re- 
quirements, allowable of an excessive liberality. 

Harold was in his twentieth year when his father 
desired to send him to Germany to further his educa- 
tion. Mr. Berwood’s plans for the future of his son 
were settled. TJpon his future avocation, he spent 
little thought, and left it to time. But he believed 
that it would be reckless folly to send abroad his heir, 
youthful and inexperienced, free and untrammelled, 
to fall a victim to a foreign adventuress, and he re- 
solved to create, before his departure, a barrier to this 
probability. The time for Harold to go abroad had 
now come, and Mr. Berwood acted with characteristic 
promptitude. 

He and Mr. Laycourt were warm friends and often 
visited each other. In the course of these meetings, 
Mr. Berwood became acquainted with Bertha, and con- 
ceived for her a friendly interest, which soon developed 
into a strong favor. It is improbable that, during her 
extreme youth, she was connected by him with his 
plans, or that his interest in her was any different from 
that which any man manifests in a bright and lovely 
daughter of his friend ; but, as she grew older and he 
noted her development, the thought, once rooted, rapidly 
matured. Bertha, he thought, was the very girl who 
would be a model wife for his son. Her youth he 
thought favorable to his plan ; for, should Harold en- 
gage himself to a lady of marriageable age, upon his 
return after some years, her constancy would plead no 
merit in her favor. 

The first person whom he acquainted with this pro- 
ject was Mr. Laycourt. That gentleman had never 
yet given the subject of Bertha’s engagement the 
serious reflection demanded by so important a subject, 
and was at first inclined to treat his friend’s proposal 
as a jest. But Mr. Berwood’s manner attested an 
earnestness not shared by Mr. Laycourt. 

“ You will forgive,” said the latter, “ my treatment 


112 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


of so grave a matter as our children’s marriage with 
unbecoming levity. It would not do to broach the 
subject at present, for I think my little Bertie has not 
recovered from the grief entailed by parting with her 
dolls.” 

“Laycourt, I wish you would regard this matter 
seriously,” said Mr. Berwood. “ If Bertie were retro- 
verting to the time that she associated with her dolls, 
your view would be a correct one; but that time has 
passed, and soon she will choose for herself, less worthily 
perhaps than you can now choose for her.” 

These remarks impressed Mr. Laycourt with a sense 
of lurking wisdom. He agreed with Mr. Berwood to 
a further consideration of the matter. After the latter’s 
departure, Mr. Laycourt pondered upon the subject 
long and seriously. He recalled the fruitlessness of his 
plans concerning his son’s marriage, but these recollec- 
tions exercised no deterrent influence; for the fact 
that his son had won a worthy bride, he ascribed to a 
fortunate chance rather than to a young man’s foresight. 
He also took into consideration the fact that Bertha, 
in addition to her natural endowments and her accom- 
plishments, would be the sole heiress to a great fortune, 
which would incite the speculative zeal of a host of 
adventurers ; and it occurred to him that an arrange- 
ment by which this danger could be partially averted 
must, in the absence of special objections, be desirable. 
He knew the young man sufficiently well to have 
formed an estimate of his character and prospects ; 
and such a union, from a worldly point of view, ap- 
pealed to his reason. Mr. Laycourt had no confidence 
in the stability of love resulting from first sight, his 
observation having led him to believe that, in the 
majority of cases, it would have been exceedingly 
fortunate if the first sight had also been the last. He 
knew, too, that the emotions of the young do not 
slumber until aroused by a magician’s touch, but are 
in a constant ferment, ready, like a needle, to yield to 
the influence of a passing magnet. After giving the 
matter an attentive consideration, he concluded to 
accept Mr. Berwood’s proposal. But, before doing so, 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


113 


he would consult Bertha and convince her of the 
wisdom of his course. 

“Come here, Bertha,” he said, as she entered the 
room in response to his summons. Bertha took a seat 
upon an ottoman at his feet. 

“ I have been thinking of you, my dear,” said Mr. 
Laycourt, “ some one has asked me to promise you to 
his son. You are still young, but for certain reasons I 
think it best that you be engaged soon. How would 
you like to be engaged ?” 

Bertha arose and clapped her hands in delight. She 
had often wondered at the vindictive fate that had 
kept her aloof from aught romantic ; and now at length 
it seemed as though fate were relenting. To Mr. Lay- 
court’s astonishment, she danced about the room sev- 
eral times before she came to him and caressed him. 

“ But, my little woman,” he said, “how can you be 
so happy when I have not even told you who he is?” 

The question had the effect to quiet the little maid. 

“ I forgot about that,” she said. “ Are you going to 
tell me who it is ?” 

“ Certainly, my dear,” said Mr. Laycourt, “ for I sup- 
pose you naturally have some curiosity to know. Mr. 
Berwood has spoken for his son Harold. Do v^ou like 
him?” 

“Ho,” said Bertha, “ I do not like him ; I don’t like 
him at all. I hate him for teasing me. But that does 
not make any difference ; I don’t need to like him.” 

“ But how do you expect to be happy with a man 
whom you do not like ?” inquired Mr. Laycourt. 

“ Oh ! I’ve read many stories where people never 
liked each other at first, and they always ended splen- 
didly,” replied Bertha, who would have coveted no fate 
more ardently than martyrdom to a romantic cause. 

Hext day, Mr. Berwood again called, and inquired as 
to the outcome of his plan. 

“It is all right,” said Mr. Laycourt, “so far as 
Bertha is concerned. She appeared to relish the idea 
of a general engagement more than the thought of 
being bound to a particular being. In fact, I believe 
that her consent emanates from a girlish illusion, born 
h 10 * 


114 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


of her reading. Bat no matter. It is wise to do right, 
though without knowledge of the occasion. Of course, 
you have spoken with Harold ?” 

“ Certainly,” said Mr. Berwood. “ With him the 
result was quite the reverse. When I spoke of his 
engagement, he made various suggestions upon gen- 
eral subjects, such as love, personal freedom, and ran- 
dom choice ; but, when I mentioned Bertha, his scruples 
disappeared. I hinted that, had I not broached the sub- 
ject to him, he would soon have mentioned it to me ; this 
he denied. ‘ You see,’ said he, laughing, 1 if I shall not 
like her, I need not take her, because she hates me ; 
and, in the mean time, no one else can get her.’ It is 
all right.” 

Bertha’s first act after her engagement was to run 
hastily to the home of Esther Northwood, whom she 
first begged to guess, then to “ give up” guessing, which 
done, she informed her of her engagement. 

Next day, Bertha was unusually quiet and demure, 
and Mr. Laycourt perceived that her engagement had 
imparted to her a matronly dignity, which, however, 
had not come to remain permanently ; and Bertha 
engaged to be married might still have been recognized 
as her former self. 

The fact that her betrothed husband did not call 
that day nor the day succeeding produced in her no 
surprise or concern. She neither expected nor desired 
his visit. Indeed, had he called upon either day, to see 
her, he would have been disappointed, Bertha having 
visited some friends, and, among others, the Bedstones, 
whom she amazed with her news. 

“ You are not to be married immediately, my little 
woman,” said Mr. Laycourt. “Your future husband 
will now go to Europe, to continue his studies, and, 
upon returning, to find you equally advanced.” 

This information pleased Bertha exceedingly. To be 
engaged was a sufficient cause of elation ; but to have a 
lover abroad was delightful. Perhaps the ship which 
carried him would strand, he be drowned, and she be 
left to mourn forever. Or perhaps he would prove 
faithless, when she could with perfect propriety enter a 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


115 


convent. Innumerable pleasing fancies crossed her 
mind the days succeeding her engagement, until when, 
three days thereafter, her lover called, she had almost 
forgotten his connection with the matter. 

Bertha and Harold did not meet as lovers are wont 
to meet the first time after their engagement. In 
response to her grandfather’s summons, she entered 
the room with a strange shyness and timidity, the 
cause of which she could not divine. She received Mr. 
Berwood’s remarks and kiss respectfully, but when 
Harold, like a dutiful son, exhibited an inclination to 
follow bis father’s example, she retreated quickly, and 
her blushing face was not beheld again that evening by 
the visitors. 

Harold felt constrained to join in the burst of mer- 
riment which succeeded Bertha’s precipitate flight ; 
but, upon arriving at his home, he deemed it his duty 
to inform his father that she was a strange bride, an 
opinion which Mr. Berwood sought to convince bim 
was fallacious. As further comfort, he predicted a 
speedy change. 

Harold called upon the Laycourts to bid them fare- 
well prior to his departure for Europe. Ho hint or 
reference was made by any one to the engagement, for 
by the senior parties it was regarded to be too grave a 
matter to be treated lightly. But Harold, though he 
avoided all appearance of rights superior to their 
former friendship, could not succeed to remove Ber- 
tha’s constraint in his presence ; their engagement had 
created between them a gulf which is usually percep- 
tible only after marriage. 

Once or twice, across Harold’s mind, flitted the 
thought that this engagement was a mistake; but he 
determined, as a matter of honor, to abide by it, a reso- 
lution which imposed a heavy strain upon his heroic 
endurance. 

Several times during the evening, he hinted at various 
possibilities of danger in his immediate prospect, and 
noticed that Bertha listened with a lively interest. She 
propounded eager queries with regard to what he would 
do in certain emergencies, and Harold’s replies were 


116 


BERTHA LAYCOTJRT. 


by no means discreditable to his intentions or displeasing 
to Bertha. She became warm and animated as the even- 
ing progressed, feelings unaffected even by Harold’s in- 
timations of danger to himself. 

Bertha and her grandfather accompanied the Ber- 
woods in Mr. Berwood’s yacht to the ship which was 
to bear Harold across the sea. On the vessel, the lat- 
ter found much difficulty to obtain speech with his be- 
trothed until the time appointed for the start. Then, 
while their guardians were inspecting with great in- 
terest a ship which had just arrived, he extended his 
hand to her. As he looked upon her, his face bore an 
expression of manly graveness, which subdued Bertha’s 
gayety. 

“ Bertha,” he said. “ I am going very far away. If 
something should happen to me, if the steamer should 
sink, would you not care ajittle?” 

Bertha looked at him in mute reproach, her eyes filled 
with tears, and she turned away. 

“Forgive me,” he said, “I know you better now. 
Your eyes laugh with the happy; your heart beats 
with the sad. Bertha, when I am gone, do not forget 
me. I shall work ; I shall strive to secure that which 
must gain your good opinion. Ho inheritance can lend 
me aid ; I rely upon my efforts for success. I shall try 
hard to deserve your friendship. Here, Bertha, let this 
keep me in your memory.” 

So saying, he handed her a chain and a jewelled locket, 
containing his portrait. Bertha accepted it, deeply 
conscious of the honor conferred upon a girl so youth- 
ful by the love of a man such as that moment he 
seemed to her. 

“ I promised grandpapa to remember you.” said she, 
in a low voice. 

It was the only hint from her of their engagement ; 
and, when spoken, Bertha was greatly relieved at the 
approach of her friends, who proceeded to take an 
affectionate leave of Harold. To Bertha, he turned 
last, and pressed his lips to the little hand extended by 
her. 

A little later, they boarded their yacht, and the ship 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


117 


slowly receded from their sight, Harold waving his hat 
until the signals responding to him were no longer dis- 
cernible. 

During their return journey, Bertha was unusually 
silent and reflective. The event which had just tran- 
spired was of a character so exceptional as to impress 
her with its importance. She vowed to herself that 
she would be always true to him, and that, if he should 
ever love another, she would call upon her rival, mag- 
nanimously release her own claims upon her lover, and 
bear her loss with sublime fortitude. It is to be feared 
that that resolution did not cling to her as a part of 
her own being, and that she experienced no remorse 
in relinquishing it. It is certain that the claims of 
Harold did not increase each day after his departure, 
and that the portrait in the locket which he had pre- 
sented her often served as a useful reminder of his 
existence. 

Letters came regularly from Harold to his father, 
who reported frequent reference to Bertha, to whom, 
of course, Harold dared not write. The letters disclosed 
that, after a safe voyage, — which he described at some 
length, — he had arrived in Europe; and, after some 
days of travel, had proceeded to Heidelberg, and had 
been duly enrolled as a student in the University of 
that place. From the experience gained by a sojourn 
of two weeks, he undertook to indicate certain pecu- 
liarities of the people. His opinions, without receiving 
his father’s concurrence, elicited his approbation ; for 
error guides wisdom to knowledge. 

Bertha’s regard for her lover did not grow stronger 
day by day; but, on the contrary, her engagement, 
after the period of novelty, became a quite common- 
place matter. It did not enter her thoughts for 
intervals of weeks. When it did recur to her, she 
reproved herself for her inconstancy, and renewed her 
silent vows to be true, renewals for which there was 
ample warrant in occasion. 


118 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

When Bertha returned to school the following sea- 
son, the fact that her lover had not written to any one 
for a long time was unknown to her, and her school life 
once more assumed supremacy. 

But one matter had been determined definitely by 
her, namely, that Harold, coming back after years of 
toil and study, would not find her far inferior ; nor did 
this resolve take root in any new fomenter of ambition ; 
for during her past school-days she had acquitted her- 
self satisfactorily, and in the studies that she preferred 
she had no superior in her class, and but one rival. 
This was a girl of her own age, named Myrtle Stratton, 
of great ambition and fine mental power ; but she was 
unfortunately of delicate health, that necessarily re- 
tarded her progress, an effect which she endeavored to 
offset by increased labors. In consequence, her fair face 
assumed a striking pallor. A physician had recom- 
mended her withdrawal from school, and, despite her 
protestations, her parents had removed her for a time, 
to her manifest advantage. But her own ambition was 
shared by them, and they soon yielded to her entreaties 
to return her. 

She had upon several examinations succeeded in ob- 
taining the highest honors of her class ; but, to her 
knowledge, so also had Bertha ; and, when the two girls 
met for the first time at this term, it became evident to 
her that it was not the proper time to relax her efforts. 

To study alone was their rivalry confined ; for their 
respective social standings among their school-mates 
could not conflict. Bertha had, from her earliest youth, 
been a privileged tyrant ; and while, as she grew older, 
she displayed not a vestige of that presuming vanity 
which constitutes the crown of many rulers, her habit 
and worldly situation, strengthened by the modest sim- 
plicity with which she used her power, gave her a 
leading position among her school-mates. 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


119 


Myrtle regarded her friend to an extent to be her 
protectress, and this singular relationship arose in this 
manner : though naturally sweet-tempered, Myrtle, 
upon mornings when her failing health produced a keen 
depression, was crabbed and irritable, — a result inevita- 
ble upon such conditions. Young persons, when offended, 
are no more inclined than are their seniors to attach 
much weight to causes for the existence of which they are 
not accountable, and Myrtle was often pained to find 
that she had unwittingly incurred a friend’s displeas- 
ure. Bertha, the girl who would have brooked no 
word of affront from her imperious friends, when thus 
addressed by Myrtle, treated her with a consideration 
and an absence of resentment that endeared her forever 
to the latter’s heart. Perhaps some of the girls who 
were less gentle in their treatment of Myrtle shared 
Bertha’s kind feeling towards her, and differed but in 
rank of scholarship. Success affords indulgence. 

Yacation was approaching; and, at the close of the 
term, the girls were to compete for honors in an essay. 
All strove with zeal ; but, from the beginning, the prize 
was supposed to be reasonably assured to either of the 
two young girls ; and it was the almost unanimous 
opinion of the teachers and pupils, who noted through- 
out the term the apparent ease and readiness with 
which Bertha mastered her lessons, that Myrtle would 
prove to be no formidable adversary to her brilliant 
rival. 

They applied themselves sedulously to their work. 
Bertha observed, with compassion and regret, the fact 
that, as Myrtle’s face grew more wan, she worked with 
more ardor, yet she could not with propriety advise her 
to desist. It was a subject upon which she maintained 
a strict reticence in conversation with her friend. 

Upon a Saturday about a week before the time ap- 
pointed, she visited Myrtle, and found her recovering 
from a severe headache. 

“ Bertha,” said the latter, “ have you finished your 
essay ?” 

“ I have almost done, not quite,” said Bertha ; “ and 
you?” 


120 


BERTHA LAYCOTJRT. 


“ 1 may as well give up,” exclaimed the young girl, in 
a voice of childish despair, “ mine will never do. I de- 
stroyed a great part of what I had written, and now 
there remains but a week.” 

The poor girl laid her head upon Bertha’s shoulder, 
and sobbed. 

“ Myrtle,” said Bertha, having soothed her friend to 
silence, “ you must stop this. It will not do ; you are 
killing yourself.” 

Myrtle drew back quickly. 

“ What would you have me do?” she said, “withdraw 
from the contest ? I know it will not make any differ- 
ence, you will win anyhow 

Bertha raised her hand, to enjoin silence. 

“Hush, Myrtle, I have no such hope. You deserve 
to triumph and shall triumph, unless some one who 
has done far better than myself will surpass you. 
You have no cause to fear me. See how sincerely I 
renounce my meagre chance.” So saying, she drew 
from her dress a roll of manuscript, eyed it fondty for 
half a minute, then tore it into fragments. For a 
moment, she turned away and pretended to examine a 
painting, then looked about, and laughed at the look 
of horror upon the face of her friend. 

“Your essay!” exclaimed Myrtle. 

“ The remains,” said Bertha. “ I am glad it is de- 
stroyed.” 

Thus she removed from the path of the sick girl 
her chief opponent. This done, she coaxed Myrtle to 
read her essay, and, during the reading, ventured first 
hints, then suggested ideas, thus practically relieving 
her poor school-mate in her task, so gradually that the 
latter did not even suspect the full extent of her friend’s 
services. 

Bertha bade her promise not to divulge what she 
had witnessed relating to the destruction of the essay, 
an act which she desired to remain forever a secret to 
all but her for whose sake it was done. Myrtle hesi- 
tated, but Bertha exerted her influence over her, with 
a firmness that enforced compliance. 

Bertha feared to relate the facts to any one, lest she 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


121 


be unduly urged against her convictions; and not until 
the eventful day did she reveal to her tutors the fact 
that her essay was unprepared. Her explanation was 
that she had abandoned her composition before its con- 
clusion, and had then devoted her time to her other 
studies. It occurred to her that, inasmuch as her 
grandfather purposed to attend the exercises, she ought 
to inform him of her action ; but, aside from the essay, 
he would not be disappointed, so she maintained silence. 

Among the visitors who attended the Commence- 
ment exercises, were Mr. Lay court and Mr. Berwood. 
In the examinations which took place previous to the 
reading of the essays, Bertha undoubtedly gained first 
honors ; but the prize for the best essay was awarded 
to Myrtle Stratton. Bertha approached her grand- 
father very timidly, fearful of his reproach ; but none 
was uttered. 

How that all was over, Bertha felt more than satis- 
fied ; she was elated with the result. If she at any 
time felt any disappointment, it was dispelled by the 
announcement of her friend’s victory. It was not sel- 
dom during the vacation following that she was in- 
terrogated upon the causes of her unexpected failure ; 
but she would not make a satisfactory explanation, 
and the secret was never divulged. 

During her preparations for her examination, she 
was unable to visit Mrs. Ledstone with former fre- 
quency, and now hastened to atone for her apparent 
shortcoming. At this time, the change of demeanor 
of the Bedstones became noticeable to her; for, in 
their treatment, no less kind now than formerly, they 
felt constrained to relinquish their parental claims 
upon her. As she developed more and more, as, in 
the character of the child, they marked the moulding 
of womanhood, to them she seemed to drift to her 
goal upon receding waters, which left their hearts 
barren and deserted shores. 

Ho glimpse of pride or vanity on her part fostered 
this thought, born merely of their conception of the 
fitness of things. Her presence never failed to allay 
any suspicion which they might have entertained re- 


122 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


garding intentional neglect. But they knew she was 
under the guardianship of her grandfather, who was 
but human. They knew also that it is human to re- 
gard desert as the attendant of possession, and that 
the rich and poor are seldom congenial associates. 

All this time, the Ledstones had not been forgotten 
by Mr. Laycourt, who never withdrew the annual 
stipend settled upon them during Bertha’s residence 
with them. To render this donation acceptable with 
proper grace, Mr. Laycourt occasionally gave Mr. Bed- 
stone employment upon some work or mission for 
which he was useful. Mr. Laycourt was in receipt of 
a letter from Jonathan, who requested a loan for a 
brief time; a small sum, he said, would be sufficient, 
without attempting to state with precision what that 
expression might comprise. It was presumable that 
Jonathan would not have requested the loan had he 
not required the money ; and, as Mr. Laycourt de- 
clined to advance any, it is equally probable that Mrs. 
Jonathan, rewardful of her husband’s promise to em- 
bark in business, relented from a determination often 
declared, in time to avert his embarrassment. 

To return to Bertha, who, after the close of her 
school for vacation, took the first opportunity to call 
upon Mrs. Bedstone. Her reception was as warm as 
ever, but there appeared in the old lady’s manner a con- 
straint which manifested itself to the fullest extent at 
their parting. 

“You will not keep us waiting so long for another 
visit, will you, my dear — Miss Bertha?” inquired Mrs. 
Bedstone. 

Bertha regarded this form of address in the nature 
of a mild reproach, and promised to repeat her visit 
soon ; hut, not until the offensive title was repeated on 
her next visit did she note its use to be founded upon 
an idea of its appropriateness. 

“ Why !” she said, in surprise, “ that is at least the 
third time you have called me Miss Bertha, when I am 
not Miss Bertha and ne.ver shall be. At least,” she 
added, “not to you.” 

“ But you are getting older now, my dear, and will 


BER TEA LA YCO UR T. 123 

go into society soon. Already you are engaged to be 
married. You are getting to be a young lady.” 

“ Am I really ?” inquired Bertha, eagerly. “ Do you 
really think I am ?” 

“Of course you are. Mary Prisbie, your old ac- 
quaintance, spoke of you as of a woman long ago.” 

“ Oh !” said Bertha, with an air of disappointment. 
“ Only because Mary says so ? She does not know. Mary 
is so young, you know. She is only a child. I have not 
noticed any alteration in myself. But do you think 
there is any chance for me to be a young lady soon ?” 

Mrs. Bedstone assured her that the chances were 
quite favorable, and Bertha was pleased. But soon she 
recurred to the previous question. 

“ Well, suppose I am a young lady, — or shall soon be, 
perhaps that is better, — why should that make any 
change in you and me ?” 

It became incumbent upon Mrs. Bedstone to explain, 
after her own method, to Bertha that, as a member of 
good society, she would have to conform to certain 
rules, that the rule most universally observed in the 
highest circles was the exclusion of the lowly born, and 
that she could not avoid that interdiction. 

But upon Bertha, Mrs. Bedstone’s explanation, so far 
as it went, was lost. Bertha knew very little about 
those matters, understood less than she heard, and 
cared less than she understood. She had an undefined 
impression that her future would somehow be regu- 
lated in strict adhesion to her own desires, and had but 
little concern regarding the means by which that con- 
dition of things would be produced. The earnestness 
with which she begged Mrs. Bedstone to continue to 
regard her as before occasioned that lady no little grati- 
fication. 

Mrs. Bedstone still mourned the absence of her son 
Jonathan, and was often offended by her husband’s un- 
sympathetic opposition. She had maintained a steady 
correspondence with Jonathan until the date of his 
marriage, and his courteous thanks for her small dona- 
tions were ample rewards for the deprivations which 
she had sometimes to undergo in consequence of his 


124 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


interest in every race save the one from which he had 
sprung. Among the most highly prized of Mrs. Led- 
stone’s possessions was a ring sent her by Jonathan, 
upon a day when his heart and the horse-hoofs beat 
in unison. After his marriage, his mother sent one 
more remittance, proffered in very hesitating and un- 
certain terms. This money was returned by Jonathan, 
with formal thanks and an expression of surprise at 
an offer of financial assistance. Mrs. Ledstone re- 
sponded in terms so penitent that his better nature 
overcame his sense of justice, and he granted her an 
unconditional pardon. 

It was a source of delight to Mrs. Ledstone, in con- 
versations with Bertha, to extol Jonathan’s nobility of 
soul, which, however, it required all the eloquence at 
her heart’s command to render perceptible. Bertha 
never thought to differ from this opinion, and thereby, 
among her strong claims upon Mrs. Ledstone, could 
rely upon her gratitude. 

But Peter Ledstone, while accepting a portion of the 
sum settled upon him by Mr. Laycourt whenever it be- 
came necessary for him to do so, would not continue to 
receive money for which he rendered no service. Ber- 
tha’s costly gifts he accepted in the spirit in which 
they were tendered, but they did not consist of money. 
Nor could necessity have compelled him to part with 
them. For years he managed, with the assistance of 
Mr. Laycourt, to live in comparative comfort. But 
his scruples caused him at this time to embrace a 
favorable offer from a relative residing in the West, 
and thither he declared his purpose to remove. 

For some time, he was restrained by Bertha’s re- 
monstrances ; but, during her absence, his judgment 
prevailed, and, soon after her graduation, the Bed- 
stones departed for the West. Bertha, who, accom- 
panied by Mr. Laycourt, rode with them for a distance, 
made them promise to write often to her, — a prom- 
ise which they fulfilled reasonably. 

During all this time, where was Bertha’s lover? 
This was a question which occurred to her so seldom 
as to render it quite startling, whenever presented. 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


125 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Mr. Edward Limestone was a young man of no or- 
dinary talents, — a claim to which his enemies sought to 
give a slanderous interpretation. He was about thirty- 
five years of age, had a pair of strong blue eyes, 
shaded by a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, a lofty 
forehead, and a large head, covered with long hair, 
which stood almost upright. He was an artist, skil- 
ful, and cognizant of that fact. 

This was the gentleman who at this time was Bertha 
Laycourt’s instructor in art. Under his tuition, she 
made satisfactory progress; and now, in her seven- 
teenth year, he noted with unconcealed admiration his 
promising pupil. This feeling of admiration was not 
confined to her artistic productions, but embraced in 
its scope the lovely artist herself; and, at times, when 
executing a painting under his direction, finding his 
looks cast upon her with an admiring expression, the 
young lady felt delighted with her artistic triumph, un- 
conscious of other conquest. Her misconstruction was 
ascribable to his own remarks. 

“ Miss Bertha executed this picture splendidly,” he 
remarked, to her grandfather. “See how good — of 
course, I speak comparatively — are the outlines of this 
countenance, the expression of the face. I tell you, 
sir, if she continues to improve as she has done, she 
will some time be able to do work that you will mis- 
take for my own.” The last two words were spoken 
in the despair of exaggeration. 

“ I am pleased to hear you say so,” said Mr. Lay- 
court. “ It required some urging to induce her to 
learn painting.” 

“She required only a little encouragement,” returned 
Mr. Limestone. “Nearly everybody should have that, 
because there are few persons who can succeed in spite 
of such opposition as I encountered from the outset of 
my career until my name became known in countries 
11 * 


126 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


in which I had never been. Then there is another in- 
stance, and stranger still, because he was a man with 
whom in many respects, I cannot even be compared, — 
Michael Angelo, whose own father opposed his desire 
to become an artist.” 

“ No man will ever succeed by a single trial,” said 
Mr. Laycourt. 

“ You are quite right, Mr. Laycourt, quite right, sir ; 
that is my own opinion,” said Mr. Limestone, taking 
off his spectacles and contracting his features to an ex- 
pressive frown. “Many men better than myself have 
learned that. Do you not think an artist’s profession 
the grandest — the most noble in the world ?” 

“ The most noble profession for any man to adopt is 
the one in which he can express his most noble con- 
ceptions; for, by choosing it, he is true to himself; 
and, being true to himself, he is true to nature.” 

The answer was not in accordance with Mr. Lime- 
stone’s desire, and he was evidently disappointed with 
it. Soon he took his departure. 

The dialogues between Mr. Laycourt and the artist 
were usually of brief duration, mere exchanges of 
civilities at meeting, and the old gentleman did not 
note the marked attentions paid Bertha by her master. 
But she herself could not long remain in utter igno- 
rance of the artist’s favor, for some original poems sub- 
mitted to her by him, at first as specimens of a poetic 
genius, gradually assumed a personal adaptation, and 
revealed, without a strain upon her imagination, the 
true source of their origin. 

Yet though she perceived, she could not quite com- 
prehend. She regarded this artist to be, on the whole, 
a rather eccentric man, whose actions were not account- 
able upon principles ordinarily governing human affairs. 
By degrees, he rendered himself more comprehensible ; 
and when, upon Bertha’s mind, began to dawn a partial 
understanding of affairs, she viewed the matter with 
little concern. That he, a man of thirty-five, and seem- 
ingly much older, could entertain any serious intentions 
connected with a young girl of seventeen, — this dispar- 
ity appearing all the greater by reason of the relation 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


127 


of teacher and pupil subsisting between them, — was a 
thought which appealed only to her sense of humor. 

“ Miss Bertha,” he said one day, “ here is a picture 
which we will next undertake. This is a copy of the 
original, which was painted by me for a royal patron, 
who was kind enough to compliment it highly, — very 
highly indeed, — more so, in fact, much more than it de- 
served. Shall we undertake it ?” 

The artist revealed a picture named “ Waiting for her 
Lover,” — a young woman standing at the window, with 
an expression of anxious expectation : a posture which, 
in many cases after marriage, becomes habitual. 

“ Do you like it ?” he inquired. 

“ Yery much,” said Bertha. 

“ It is the picture which I like best of all I have ever 
executed,” said Mr. Limestone. “ It is such a pleasing 
picture of natural happiness. With what eagerness she 
awaits his coming ; and he, probably a rising young 
man, — no, not a young man, for a young man cannot 
feel an ideal love, such as an older man’s wisdom can en- 
courage in him, — he, I say, how happy he must feel to 
think that, upon coming home in the evening, after the 
days of vexation which, believe me, we men of genius 
have at all times to endure, he will find this faithful 
young woman on the lookout for him. Is it not a pleas- 
ant picture ?” 

“ Yes,” said Bertha, “ but your imagination did not 
intrust half of it to canvas, and it derives a part of its 
beauty from an independent association.” 

“ True,” said the artist, abstractedly. “ Miss Bertha, 
how would you like to be a queen ?” 

“ Oh ! the most delightful thing in the world, to be a 
queen,” exclaimed Bertha, with the earnestness of con- 
viction. 

“ I wish I were a king, that I could give you a king- 
dom,” said the artist, who overlooked the fact that a 
gift lacks charm if coupled with a condition. 

Bertha laughed merrily. 

“ Thank you,” she said. “ If I ever have some stray 
kingdoms at my disposal, I will try to be equally gen- 
erous.” 


128 


BERTHA LAYCOVRT. 


Thereupon, the artist, baffled, left the subject to a 
future renewal. But, when the occasions upon which 
he was thus frustrated became as frequent as his ad- 
vances, he inclined to the belief that this result was not 
accomplished wholly without design. For a time, his 
pride would yield this thought no tenancy, but the de- 
sire to realize the true state of things soon furnished it 
a convenient lodgement. 

Though Bertha listened, with polite attention to his 
enumeration of the various qualities which constitute 
the perfect man, and to a recounting of his many 
enviable achievements, when away from his presence a 
recollection of his mannerisms incited her ridicule. 

“ Oh, grandpapa,” she said, “ what a teacher you have 
provided me for painting 1” 

“ Is he not an excellent artist ?” said Mr. Laycourt, 
affirmatively. 

“ Yes, he is,” said Bertha, “ but he claims so many 
excellencies, that it is difficult to concede him any. You 
ought to hear him speak of himself. How eloquent he 
becomes upon the subject! He thinks the world but a 
small portion of himself, and himself to be a world ; 
and what a world he is! We must make a new geog- 
raphy of him. His intellect is a great desert, bounded 
on the north by the gulf of vanity, on the east by the 
continent of assurance, on the south by a mountain- 
ous range of selfishness, and on the west — the prov- 
ince of his imagination — he will admit no boundary. 
Afar off, in the ocean of self-esteem, lies the deserted 
isle of modesty ; near by, through all his arteries, flows 
the river of his ambition, taking its source at the sea 
of self-interest.” 

“ My child, your geography will never do for worldly 
instruction,” said Mr. Laycourt. “ An observer is no 
favorite.” 

“But,” said Bertha, “is it proper that any person 
speak constantly of his own attainments?” 

“It is not only improper, but foolish,” said Mr. 
Laycourt. “Words often weaken, and never supply, 
merit. If you prefer another teacher, one" is easily 
procurable.” 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


129 


Bertha shook her head vigorously during the utter- 
ance of the last sentence. 

“No, no, no. I do not want to wrong Mr. Lime- 
stone, and I regret to have said anything against him,” 
said she, “ because he takes very great pains with my 
instruction.” 

Seeing how nearly she had done injury to one who 
conferred benefit upon her, next time, in atonement, 
she listened with unusual interest to Mr. Limestone’s 
narration of the manner in which he had obtained an 
artist’s medal ; and was on the whole so pliant and 
friendly, that the artist discarded his belief in the ex- 
istence of intentions formerly ascribed by him to her. 

“ You see I have been successful,” he said. “ I am 
still young, and can accomplish much ; yet I lack the 
will to do it, because, if I gain all, to whom shall I give 
it? Ah ! you do not know me yet, Miss Bertha. I would 
sacrifice my life and soul for one I loved.” 

“ He who gains such a friend must indeed be fortu- 
nate,” said Bertha, sincerely ; for the artist now spoke 
in a tone of impassioned earnestness. 

“ He who gains such a friend !” he repeated. “ He 
cannot gain it ; she can gain it; she has gained it. If 
I were only five years younger, I would tell her all. I 
would tell you that ” 

“ Mr. Limestone, will you be kind enough to show 
me how to repair this mischief? I painted this tree 
out of proportion to its surroundings.” 

The voice which uttered these words was quavering, 
and her face was turned upon the picture, to conceal 
her embarrassment. She did not reflect upon the rude- 
ness of the interruption ; she perceived but its necessity. 

The face of the artist grew red with anger and 
wounded pride. For a half-minute, he did not speak, 
and she could hear his quick breathing. 

“ Are you aware, madam, whom you are thus treat- 
ing? do you know who I am? I am Edward Lime- 
stone ; the world will tell you who he is. No one has 
ever spoken to me in this way before, and ” 

He stopped, as Bertha turned, and, by a motion of 
her hand, enjoined his silence. 


130 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


“ Mr. Limestone, I had no intention to offend you,” 
she said, with stately composure. 

“ I don’t think you had,” said the artist. “ I suppose 
you are surprised that anything can offend so obtuse a 
being as I am, but ” 

“ Sir, once more permit me to interrupt you. I have 
explained ; pray regard that to be sufficient.” The last 
words were accompanied with a slight bow of dismissal 
of the subject. 

“ I ask your forgiveness, Miss Bertha ; I will not 
again offend. I should never have spoken ; for how 
could I hope that you could ever regard me as I have 
always regarded you? But neither did I wish to 
offend. I never thought my love could prove offen- 
sive to any lady. It is a lesson which I have just 
learned. Yery good, very good. I shall never say 
another word upon the subject.” 

Under this wise resolution, the artist paused, until 
Bertha was about to speak, when she found him kneel- 
ing before her. 

“Yes, Miss Bertha, I must tell you all; you won’t 
believe me, — you think me hot — impetuous — wild ; you 
are mistaken, — I am always cool — thoughtful, — but 
you do not return jt, — you do not believe me.” 

“ I do believe you, I do indeed,” said Bertha, too 
bewildered by his vehement incoherencies to know 
what she was saying. 

“ You are young ; I am older than you are,” con- 
tinued the artist, with less impetuosity, “ but that dif- 
ference is no obstacle. You can look far without doing 
better. 1ST o one will so wholly devote his life to your 
service as I will. What does the world know of that 
highest emotion, love ? My dear Miss Bertha, you shall 
know what that is ; you have it now, if you will but 
accept it.” 

So rapidly were these sentences uttered that Bertha 
gathered but their amazing drift. When he paused, 
she was still too embarrassed for a time to speak, and 
he was about to resume. 

“ Give me leave one moment,” she said. “ Let me 
think.” 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


131 


She requested time only to collect her scattered 
thoughts, but he gave her words the misinterpretation 
of a sanguine heart, and waited anxiously. Then 
Bertha began, slowly and hesitatingly : 

* “ You surprise me, sir; you do me too much honor; 
but I cannot think of such things ; they are so strange, 
— I am so young. Besides,” concluded she, her recol- 
lection happily stumbling upon a valid ground of refusal, 
“ I am betrothed to another.” 

“ Betrothed to another!” echoed the artist. “You 
betrothed ! Are you making sport of me again, Miss 
Bertha ?” 

“ Truly, I am serious,” said Bertha. “ I have been 
engaged two years, — three years, I think it is.” 

“ Mere child’s play,” said Limestone. “ Do you really 
believe that you would be satisfied with your choice of 
childhood’s days ?” 

“ He was not my choice,” replied Bertha. “ He was 
grandpapa’s choice ; but I agreed to be promised.” 

“Miss Bertha, do not let such a singular episode 
stand between us and our happiness,” began the artist; 
but Bertha, in sore perplexity, again interrupted him. 

“Let us not speak any longer about this, sir. You 
are too good — too kind to press the matter. I wish 
grandpapa were here, he could explain much better.” 

The artist suddenly stopped his rapid walks across 
the room, and paused before the window for some 
minutes in deep meditation before he spoke again. 
The interval afforded Bertha an opportunity to regain 
her composure ; and, in the hope to divert her suitor’s 
attention, she looked about her intently for a new 
object, until she became interested in some new con- 
trivance purchased by her guardian, and soon she was 
in her usual, cheerful mood. Suddenly the artist, whose 
presence Bertha had momentarily forgotten, turned, 
and spoke in time to arrest an expression of wonder- 
ment, evoked by the result of an experiment with the 
machine. 

“Miss Bertha, I cannot endure it,” announced the 
artist, as the result of his deliberations. “ If you do 
not become my wife, I will shoot myself.” 


132 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


Picture the speaker’s horror to see his young en- 
chantress break into a merry laugh. The artist’s 
countenance alternated between the extremes of red 
and white ; but he could not speak, — certainly not 
with any immediate hope of an auditor. A minute 
later, her laughing eyes alone revealed her mirthful 
agitation. 

“ The project alone appears to yield you almost as 
much delight as would the act,” he said. 

“ More, far more,” returned Bertha. “ But what a 
novel way to woo ! I read of it often in books, but it 
never occurred to me to be so — excuse me — ludicrous. 
A man shoot himself because a certain girl will not 
consent to be his wife? Why! what woman will have 
a husband who, at all times liable to disappointment, 
may at any time leave her a widow ?” 

“Well, well, but that is not the proper view to take 
of it,” stammered Mr. Limestone. 

“ I have a friend who has a dozen admirers. What 
can she do if they make the same threats ? She cannot 
save even one without hastening the death of the 
others.” 

He made no response ; but to his face came an ex- 
pression of despair. Bertha advanced to him with 
extended hands. 

“ Forgive me,” she said, “ forgive a foolish girl who 
has caused you pain. You are my teacher: I will be 
a more grateful pupil. Forget what I have said ; and 
let us be friends, as heretofore.” 

He gazed into her beautiful eyes, now softly pleading. 
He took her extended hand, and bowed respectfully 
before her. In that moment, while her hand rested 
confidingly in his own, resentment fled his bosom. 

“Your lesson is well taught,” he said. “You will 
permit me to remain still near you ?” 

“ I beg you to remain, now and ever, my friend and 
my instructor,” she replied. 

It was beyond the time of his usual departure. With 
a low bow, he took his leave. 

Bertha repaired to the library, where, in accordance 
with an established custom, she read to her grandfather 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


133 


from some excellent works of his selection. Often in 
her reading he would interrupt her, to make various 
comments and explanations, and would lead her into 
discussion. By this means, she became a student of a 
great literature, which developed in her the controlling 
thoughts and feelings of her future life. He did not 
dwell for any length of time upon any one branch, by 
which her mind might have become of a too serious 
cast ; but, mindful of this danger, he led her through 
the various domains in the empire of literature, and 
enlisted her unflagging interest. Again, he would re- 
quest her to play, and would analyze the conceptions of 
the composers until her performance lacked no charm 
of correct expression. 

It was not marvellous that Bertha lived during these 
days a happy life, nor that she thought the ambient 
works of nature to share with her a life of happiness. 
When her little bird chirped answer to her caresses, 
her thoughts supplied appropriate words to its sweet 
melody. The flowers appeared to her in mute appeal 
for speech. The rustlings of leaves imparted gentle 
secrets to her soul. The sighing of the wind was, in a 
serious hour, the muse of sadness ; and to the murmur- 
ing stream she turned, her heart responsive to its 
plaintive song. But not long did sympathy connect 
her soul with sorrow ; nor, feeling so, were scenes of 
consolation distant. These feelings, transient as the 
clouds, like them soon vanished, revealing again a 
serene sky, which they could not long screen. 

She was greatly impressed by a picture drawn by 
her grandfather. 

“ In the course of my travels abroad,” he said, “ one 
day I trod a valley, between two great table-lands, that, 
at the summit, in mutual approach, almost divided 
earth from heaven. From the sides of the slope, pro- 
jected boulders of prodigious size, threatening an in- 
stant descent of death. Slightly beneath us ran an inky 
stream, — the river of death. Ho ray of sunlight pene- 
trated that depth ; and, by an artificial light, casting its 
beams but a few feet ahead, we were guided in the 
gloomy abyss. Our senses warped by helplessness, and 
12 


134 


BERTHA LAYCOURT 


environed by the dark emissaries of death, our feeble 
light yet revealed to us a path, narrow, but by search 
and care rendered traversable. We encountered many 
images of aspect terrific until approached ; and, still 
filled with apprehension, we made a safe ascent. That 
scene was symbolical of our lives. We stand, and, dis- 
mayed, view the heights, our destiny screened by an 
impenetrable mass. At every step, we encounter im- 
pediments. Do we pause before any, our hesitation 
lends a microscope to apprehension ; but, moving on, 
acquaintance dispels fear, and, guided by our reason 
— though a feeble light amidst its sublime encompass- 
ments, — toil and energy at length reward their patrons.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Bertha had many friends at school, though but few 
of them remained with her upon terms of intimacy after 
their attendance there; the others roamed together 
through the usual lane to a point at which their paths 
diverged. One was the daughter of a wealthy banker, 
who believed himself to own the world, and, not con- 
tent merely to draw his dividends, resolved to reduce 
his entire capital to his possession. A second attempt 
ultimately ruined him ; and his daughter, who had 
already confided to Bertha her intention to marry 
only for love, was constrained, in furtherance of such 
purpose, to make a transfer of her affections. 

Another was the daughter of a man in moderate 
circumstances, who, shifting his political position at a 
fortunate time, was elected to a municipal office, con- 
nected with which was a salary of one thousand dol- 
lars per annum. Two years of assiduous labor in this 
field rendered him the possessor of a princely fortune ; 
and, at this time, he was abroad with his daughter, 
whose matrimonial prospects were reported to be ex- 
cellent. It was said also that a young count, travelling 


BERTHA LAFCOURT. 


135 


upon the continent, fell so deeply in love with her, that 
he would have made her his wife, had not that station 
been claimed, at an inopportune moment, by another 
lady. 

Another friend of Bertha was, by the admission of 
her parents, the child of misfortune. The man, by no 
means wealthy, had never defrauded any one in his life, 
and the future looked destitute of any opportunity. 
But equally galling was the fact that he was a man of 
opinions, and had, consequently, to endure many indig- 
nities ; for opinions find in poverty no confirmation. 
The girl was plain, though not homely; at times, she 
even admitted to herself, with a blush of modesty, that 
she was handsome ; but, after her lover forsook her to 
go west and join the cowboys, she determined to enter 
a convent, and to this purpose she clung with womanly 
resolution until its abandonment. 

These were the experiences of the eldest of Bertha’s 
school-mates. Some of the younger girls were just 
entering society, while others still attended school. 

Myrtle Stratton was among the few girls with whom 
Bertha’s friendship, formed at school, continued after 
she graduated. They left school at the same time, 
and were as intimate as confiding young girls must 
necessarily be with their friends. 

Owing to her delicate health, she did not return to 
school after her success in obtaining the prize for her 
essay ; and, in pursuance of a physician’s advice, went 
abroad for some months with her parents. After her 
return, her face appeared to be relieved of its extreme 
paleness, and, in moments of excitement, her com- 
plexion was tinted by a delicate rose. Her long absten- 
tion from study — a course pursued under competent 
direction — contributed to a wonderful improvement in 
her physicial condition and moderated the demands of 
her studious habit.' Mr. Stratton, soon after his return, 
was afflicted with a disease which, after a visit more 
lengthy than welcome, left him an invalid; and she 
devoted a considerable portion of her time to attend- 
ance upon him. This was all the more necessary, inas- 
much as Mrs. Stratton was subject to rheumatic at- 


136 


BERTHA LAYCOTJRT. 


tacks, and was at such times in a condition to receive 
attention rather than to bestow it. 

When she visited Bertha immediately after return- 
ing from Europe, the two girls had a lengthy conver- 
sation upon the journey and various sights. 

“ Bertha,” said Myrtle, pausing suddenly in the midst 
of a description, “ whom do you think I saw in Berlin ? 
No less a person than your lover.” 

“My lover?” repeated Bertha, who had of late for- 
gotten the claim of any one to such a title. 

“ Why, yes, Harold, you know ; Harold Berwood.” 

“ What makes you say my — my lover ? I have no 
lover. I want none. I have not yet left school.” 

“ No matter,” said Myrtle, “ I know he is your lover, 
because he said so. He told papa so. Papa asked him 
about it. He saw Harold in Berlin, in company with 
some ladies; one was very pretty. You need not be 
jealous now. She is married.” 

“ To whom ? to him?” inquired Bertha. 

“ No, not to him. You treat it more lightly than 
he does, Bertha. He considers himself as firmly bound 
to you to-day as though you were already his wife. 
He told papa so. You need not laugh. He claims 
to be a man of honor.” 

“And, like all men of honor, he is ready to sacrifice 
his comfort for his honor?” queried Bertha. “And to 
the unworthy object who would profit by his noble 
act? No, Myrtle, I must endeavor to be more worthy 
of so magnanimous a deed, and shall, therefore, re- 
nounce a gift gained by another’s sacrifice.” 

“ How you do misconstrue my words, Bertha ! He 
did not say that he would make a sacrifice.” 

“He has not yet been able to determine? Then he 
is less noble than you thought ; for honor knows no 
hesitation.” 

“ Now, Bertha, let us be reasonable. I really think 
he loves you.” 

“Then he is not honorable, if he makes a pretext 
of honor,” said Bertha. “ Is it not possible that you 
wrong him ?” 

“ I do, by speaking of him to you, you perverse 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


137 


creature,” said Myrtle. “He was more kind to you 
than are you to him. He inquired most kindly after 
you, and you, knowing that I had seen him, asked me 
not a word.” 

“You wrong me there,” said Bertha. “It was no 
intentional neglect. I had forgotten him until you 
were good enough to mention his name.” 

“ That does not speak well for women. He did not 
need to be reminded of his promise; but I shall not 
say another word about this matter,” said Myrtle, 
closing her lips tightly. 

“ And let your friend die of curiosity ?” asked Bertha. 
“You are cruel.” 

Thereupon Myrtle maintained a brief silence, after 
which she proceeded to recount further adventures in 
the course of her travels. 

These were the first tidings received by Bertha for 
some time of her betrothed. The locket received from 
him upon the ship was still retained by her, as it was still 
handsome and she was true ; but it must be confessed 
that its value was not enhanced in her estimation by 
the portrait of the giver, nor did she, with eager de- 
light, frequently open the locket and gaze upon his 
picture. At first, she had done this, her reading having 
led her to believe that such conduct was necessary ; 
but by and by neglect became habitual. Upon one oc- 
casion, when accident brought the matter to her atten- 
tion, she arraigned herself with severity, declined to 
entertain any defence, and was only relieved from the 
serious consequences otherwise following her judg- 
ment by promises of better conduct. She hesitated 
some time before accepting these promises; but ulti- 
mately strict justice yielded -to mercy. After this trial 
and its grave result, the matter lost its prominence, 
and poor Harold was again forgotten. But not for 
long. His image arose again before her, though in a 
different form. 

Among Bertha and her friends, a topic which for a 
time obtained supremacy was the engagement of a 
pretty young girl named Emma Mandyke to a man of 
wealth and years. The young girls all agreed that 
12 * 


138 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


their friend was throwing herself away, a view in which, 
it was said, she expressed concurrence. It was well 
known that she had but yielded to the wishes of her 
parents, and that she loved a handsome young man em- 
ployed as a subordinate clerk by her betrothed husband. 

At an informal indignation meeting held for the pur- 
pose, it was agreed that the conduct of her parents 
was shameful and that a woman ought in such matters 
to be allowed to exercise her own choice without con- 
straint. At this time, an event, striking, though by 
no means extraordinary, occurred. 

One morning, the handsome young clerk, whose 
name was Charley, was missed, as was also a package 
of money. These simultaneous disappearances were 
at first deemed a mere coincidence, but subsequent 
investigation acquitted accident of complicity. They 
were followed towards Canada by detectives, who over- 
took Charley with a portion of the money. He assured 
the detectives of his innocence, but the hard-hearted 
officers brought him back to the city, where he was 
lodged in jail. 

The morning after his return, the door of his cell 
was opened by the turnkey, who admitted a young 
lady, heavily veiled. Baising her veil, she presented 
to his delighted glance the beautiful face of the girl 
he loved. Her face bore an expression of grief and her 
eyes were red with weeping. 

“ Oh, Charley !” she cried, throwing herself into his 
arms, with an outburst of tears. 

“Then you will not forsake me, my darling?” in- 
ferred Charley. 

“ Never, Charley, never,” replied Emma, in earnest 
tones. “I will never leave you; I will die first. We 
will be faithful to each other. Let the world do what 
it may, we will prove your innocence, and bring the 
man who has caused all our trouble to justice.” 

“Thank God! there is one who does not believe 
their infamous charges,” said Charley, devoutly. 

“How could you think that I would ever doubt 
you ?” was her reply ; and Charley took the faithful 
girl into his arms and kissed her. 


BER THA LA YCO URT. 139 

“ I will pray day and night to heaven to disclose 
the truth,” she said. 

She did not neglect her promise, nor did she pray 
in vain. Responsive to her pious invocations, the truth 
was discovered, and Charley was sent to the peniten- 
tiary. 

Emma’s visit, though kept a secret, came to the 
knowledge of her betrothed husband, who, deeply 
moved by the pure affection and fidelity of the lovers, 
lost no time in releasing her from her engagement; 
but the courts now interposed other obstacles, and the 
union never took place. 

However, this sequel to the former portion of the 
romantic occurrence was unknown to the young girls, 
who deprecated coercion in affairs of the heart and 
resolved upon rebellion. Bertha shared this opinion, 
though she could impute no wrong or error to her 
grandfather. To her, nothing done by him was per- 
vious to doubt or question ; and this not alone through 
the mere influence of gratitude or affection, but by 
reason of a belief almost religious. With her, this 
rebellion was confined to a mere chafing under re- 
straint ; and she resolved to broach the matter to her 
grandparent. 

It required but a few minutes to form this design, 
but days seemed insufficient for its execution ; and it 
is improbable that she would have made mention of it 
to him had not he noticed an uncommon restlessness 
to pervade her at times and inquired as to the reason. 
This Bertha would not state. 

“ What is it, Bertha ?” he inquired. “ What troubles 
you?” 

“ Nothing, grandpapa,” answered Bertha. 

“ I thought it 'to be nothing; that is a general subject 
of complaint among young girls,” said Mr. Laycourt. 
“ But in what manner does it affect you now?” 

Bertha reflected a moment, and, advancing, sat down 
upon an ottoman at his side. 

“ Grandpapa,” she said gravely, “ must I marry 
Harold ?” 

Mr. Laycourt looked at her with his usual calmness. 


140 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


“ Not to-day,” he said. “ Have no fear. You will 
have ample time for preparation.” 

“But suppose we do not want each other; suppose 
he does not love me, or I do not love him,” suggested 
Bertha. 

“In that case, the marriage will have to be deferred 
until you can learn to love each other,” replied Mr. 
Laycourt. 

“ I fear you think me very simple, grandpapa,” said 
Bertha. 

“By no means,” he returned. “ The subject of love 
between husband and wife merits some thought; and 
the experience of others in that regard justifies your 
precautions. But tell me, Bertha, why do you broach 
the subject at this time?” 

“Because we were speaking about these matters, 
and I thought — I mean somebody said — that is, we all 
thought that a woman ought to marry the man she 
loves, and no one else.” 

“ A very laudable conclusion,” said Mr. Laycourt, 
“ but how does it apply to you ? Do you love any 
other young man better than Harold ?” 

“Not at all,” replied Bertha; “but I don’t love 
Harold either. I have tried to think of him and to 
love him, but somehow I cannot do it.” 

Mr. Laycourt smiled, reflected for a minute, and 
was again serious. 

“ Bertha,” he said, “ I understand ; your ideas are 
natural. Youthful dreams coextend with time and 
space unto infinity; and any boundary, though marked 
with precious gems, is a restraint. There is in the 
vagueness of hope a delight which no result can realize. 
I shall not circumscribe the limits of your golden field. 
Have no fears, Bertha. Mark me well. You have 
been promised to Harold ; the promise is binding upon 
you only if linked with your desire. Harold must 
understand that.” 

Before going to her grandfather, it had been her 
intention to put the case to him in the light in which 
her companions had viewed it and ask to be released 
from her engagement; but, when apprised of the ease 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


141 


with which this result could be achieved, it presented 
no special allurement. To remove impediments is to 
destroy ambition. 

So Bertha’s engagement survived this ordeal. 


CHAPTER XX. 

Harold Berwood, after bidding his betrothed wife 
farewell upon the steamship which conveyed him to 
Europe, was, by virtue of his engagement, imbued with 
a strong pride of ownership. He liked Bertha, and a 
feeling of lonesomeness possessed him the first day of 
his voyage. He had a passing thought next day to 
return in a ship which they sighted, but abandoned 
this design as unfeasible. His new surroundings af- 
forded a diversion, and the demand of his heart to 
return became less peremptory. 

At Heidelberg, he entered the University. It was 
not long before he became well acquainted with his 
teachers and fellow-students. But his studies did not 
absorb his entire attention. His father had enjoined 
him on no account to neglect his athletic exercises ; in 
consequence, his physical, kept pace with his mental, 
development. 

Among his friends, was a young man named Roger 
Girdon, with whom, in course of time, he became inti- 
mate. 

No one could deny Harold the possession of that 
energy without the intervention of which, ability and 
success remain strangers, and his progress was, there- 
fore, excellent. Attending strictly to his own affairs, 
to the exclusion of the practical jests in which some 
of his associates indulged, any ill-will incurred by him 
was traceable, not to his deeds, but to his possessions. 

In other respects, his career was similar to that of 
other young men, — subjected to few of the annoyances, 
participating in many of the pleasures, and indulging 
in some of the dissipation, incidental to such life. But 


142 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


of these, his nature would admit no surfeit ; and, after 
the first years, he renounced useless pastimes, and 
devoted himself to the earnest problems and occupa- 
tions engaging his attention. 

But in another regard he was subjected to many 
trials, and this was his engagement. He met young 
girls, to whom he could conscientiously pay slight at- 
tentions, having already resolved to be true to his 
honor and to Bertha; and, whenever he was disposed 
to be particularly friendly, he renewed his resolution ; 
yet, notwithstanding the unanimity with which it was 
always carried, his soul rebelled against its bondage. 

Pretty women being numerous, his fancy could not 
always elude attraction. Had he been free and dis- 
engaged, it is probable that his attention could not 
have been attracted so easily as it was under the cir- 
cumstances existing; but whenever he discovered a 
predilection for a lady, and was reminded of the barrier 
subsisting between them, his spirit rose in arms. Once 
he determined to write Bertha that he felt he was not 
worthy of her, and therefore wished to be released; 
and truly such a letter would have proven the truth 
of its contents; but it was never written. He con- 
cluded that he could not demand his freedom. He 
wondered why Bertha was too selfish to release him 
of her own accord, and did not suspect the utter un- 
selfishness with which that boon could have been 
granted. He learned with astonishment from his 
father that Bertha had become a young lady. He 
imagined her to be as he had left her, did not contem- 
plate any alteration, and was surprised at its sudden- 
ness. Further reports that came to him through friends 
from America rendered his slavery less irksome, and 
he was almost content to suffer with resignation. 

At Antwerp, he met a young girl, whose charms were 
not indifferent to him. Well knowing that he could 
rely upon himself with the utmost assurance, he did 
not display the caution, that he would otherwise have 
observed, and, in consequence, soon found himself — figu- 
ratively speaking — in love with her. When questioned 
by himself upon the subject, he denied it with em- 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


143 


phasis, and sought to establish his denial with most 
convincing arguments ; but, being convinced, he was 
constrained to admit that his conviction was not final. 
The result was one of those inward struggles which 
draw tears from the eyes of sympathizing ladies, and 
eventually he concluded that he was the most unhappy 
being alive, ignoring for the time being the existence of 
all other young men in hopeless love. At length, he 
wrote his father a letter, in which he remarked that, 
at the time he had engaged himself to Miss Laycourt, 
he had not given the matter as much reflection as its 
importance demanded, that a happy marriage depends 
upon the state of the emotions as well as the mind, that 
the emotions act spontaneously and are not subject t*> 
the will, that he did not love Miss Laycourt with requisite 
devotion, and various other circumstantial and scientific 
facts. In conclusion, he asked to be released from his 
engagement, as he entertained no doubt it would be 
more agreeable to Miss Laycourt as well as to him. 
Having despatched this letter, a great load was lifted 
from his mind ; but not for long. 

In course of time, a reply came from his father. He 
declared himself well pleased with the result of Harold’s 
psychological researches and regretted that his prac- 
tical knowledge had not kept pace; that the reasons as- 
signed, though influential in the formation of a promise, 
could justify no breach of it; that the fact that he did 
not love Bertha was not established clearly, as a young 
man’s fancy bears no relation to love; and that even 
his fancy could not operate judiciously until he would 
see her. Towards the close of the letter, the writer 
treated the subject with much seriousness. He assured 
Harold that his views would undergo a great change; 
but that, if, after seeing Bertha, he persisted in his de- 
termination, the matter could be readily adjusted. 

But Harold would yield to neither argument nor per- 
suasion ; he acknowledged to himself that he loved the 
young girl mentioned, with his whole heart, upon the 
same day that she married one of his school-mates, the 
scion of an ancient baronial house and a trickster at 
cards. Harold knew that the girl loved him, and this 


144 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


proceeding was, therefore, to his inexperienced eye, a 
novel one. 

“ I shall never trust any woman again,” he remarked 
to Roger G-irdon. 

“ Why not ?” inquired Mr. Girdon, gazing quietly 
upon his friend. “ You have said that she is totally 
unlike other women.” 

“ I find I was mistaken in her,” said Harold. " She 
is just like the rest of them.” 

“ Is it an invariable principle with women to love one 
man and wed another?” queried Girdon. 

“ They are all false,” replied Harold, unhesitatingly. 

“ You have reached that conclusion so cautiously and 
gradually, that to doubt it were idle,” said Girdon. 

“ What is the matter with you, Girdon ?” demanded 
Harold. “ Since when are you posing as the champion 
of women ?” 

“ Since they were deserted by their late champion for 
a so excellent reason,” replied Girdon. “ I have heard 
of a man who despises all birds because he believes a 
crow to be their monarch.” 

“ You are the most contrary man I ever met,” said 
Harold, “ else we could not have changed sides on this 
question. I believe, did I assert that ebony is black, 
you woujd attempt to demonstrate that it is a pure spot- 
less white, beside which snow is black as jet.” 

“ This instance does not prove it,” said Girdon, “ for 
your attack provoked opposition. A weak arraign- 
ment is a strong defence. But you merit no sympathy 
in this matter ; nor do you require it, as you do not 
appear to be broken-hearted.” 

“ Undoubtedly I shall outlive this good fortune,” 
said Harold. 

True to his prediction, he survived it and other 
slight mishaps of a similar nature. As he grew older, 
his fortune seemed to improve or his heart became 
more callous, and life was endurable. 

Harold was twenty-four years of age at the time ho 
graduated, some years later, having taken high rank in 
his classes. His father was with him at the time, and 
urged him to return to America; but he would not 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


145 


consent. It was his desire to devote a year to travels 
throughout the more attractive parts of Europe ; and, 
to the acquirement of an experience so beneficial, Mr. 
Berwood would not object. 

From Harold’s earlier letters, Mr. Berwood had been 
impressed with an apprehension of future trouble in 
the execution of his arrangements; but later corre- 
spondence tended to dispel this fear; and, at this time, 
he, bereft of doubt, returned to his home. 

Eoger Girdon was eager to acompany Harold upon 
his tour ; but the fatal illness of his father necessitated 
his departure for America, after agreeing to join Harold 
towards the latter part of his journeys, and return 
home with him. 

One day, therefore, the two gentlemen could be found 
aboard a vessel, bound for America. 

Upon a mild summer’s night, Harold Berwood was 
seated upon deck, and absorbed in thought. Soon 
Girdon came up and discovered him. 

“ What is the matter, Berwood ?” he inquired. 

“Berwood no longer, Eoger. Mr. Warpole, at your 
service.” 

“You appear to be thoughtful this evening, Mr. 
Warpole.” 

“ I am glad to find you take so readily to the name,” 
said Harold. “ Sit down, Eoger, and let me tell you of 
what I have been thinking.” 

Eoger took a seat, and his friend proceeded. 

“ Before I went to Europe to study, yielding to the 
wishes of my father and a personal feeling which I 
cannot now name nor describe, I engaged myself to be 
married to a young girl, a child, in fact. This matter has 
become quite serious. My father relies upon my fulfil- 
ment of the engagement, and so does Mr. Laycourt, 
the grandfather of my betrothed. How Miss Laycourt 
herself regards the question is a matter beyond my 
knowledge. She did not appear to be very deeply in 
love with me when we were together; but I suppose 
she will defer to her grandfather’s wish. You per- 
ceive, lam in a rather novel position. I am about to 
meet a lady to whom I am engaged to be married and 
o k 13 


146 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


whom I have not seen since her childhood. My father 
has informed me that she will spend a part of the 

season at N . Under the name which I have now 

assumed, I shall contrive to become acquainted with 
her, and can then determine upon my course and 
method of procedure. How does that project impress 
you ?” 

“ I think it an excellent plan,” said Girdon. “ It will 
relieve your meeting with Miss Laycourt of an embar- 
rassment and a constraint which would inure to the 
disadvantage of both.” 

“ Exactty,” said Harold. “ If the truth ever becomes 
known, she will ascribe it to a love of romance. My 
father does not know by what ship I arrive. I shall 
write him a letter that, having other places to visit, our 
return will be deferred several weeks, and we will at 
once, if you are willing, proceed to N .” 

“ Very well,” said Girdon. “ Though I doubt that I 
ought to assist you in a possible breach of an engage- 
ment.” 

“ You wrong me, Eoger. I do not contemplate such 
a result. I recognize the binding force of the engage- 
ment, made conclusive by my own consent. In fact, I 
do not know that I would have it otherwise. To con- 
fess the truth, in my younger days, this arrangement, 
as time went on, proved more and more oppressive ; 
but I have since concluded that, even if my father 
erred, I benefited by his step, for error often obviates 
greater error, and this was one of those instances.” 

“ The more I think upon your plan, the better I like 
it,” said Girdon. 

“ Then help me execute it,” said Harold. “We will 
soon see the result.” 

Pursuant to this project, they spent no time in Hew 

York after their arrival there, and repaired to H , 

a summer resort. Girdon met there many friends, to 
whom he introduced his friend Mr. Warpole. Some of 
these persons were former friends of Harold, but did 
not, in the man, recognize the school-boy whom they 
had known. 

Among this new acquaintance, were Mr. and Mrs. 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


147 


North wood, — now very wealthy, — whom Harold had 
also known, though he did not reveal that fact. With 
them was their daughter Esther, whom Harold did not 
remember to have ever seen. He and Girdon made 
arrangements to remain temporarily at a hotel near 
Mr. Northwood’ s villa, and, in the evening, they called 
upon the family. 

“Mr. Warpole and I were school-mates for a time 
and travelled considerably together,” explained Girdon. 

They discussed various subjects which they found of 
common interest and knowledge. 

“I would like to inquire, Mr. Warpole,” said Miss 
North wood, “ did you know there a gentleman named 
Harold Berwood ?” 

As Esther turned up her eyes inquiringly, she met 
the calm glance of Berwood, who replied without 
hesitancy : 

“ Yes, I knew him well. I saw him just six weeks 
before my return. He desires to be kindly remembered 
to and by all his friends.” 

“ Do you know when he contemplates to return 
home ?” pursued Esther. “ I know he has been ex- 
pected for some time.” 

“ By whom, may I inquire ?” 

“By his father,” replied Esther. 

“ He will probably be home next week,” said Harold, 
no less surprised than gratified by the interest mani- 
fested in him by Miss Northwood. 

In response to an inquiry by Girdon, Esther stated 

that Bertha Laycourt had been at N , and would 

probably be there again before the expiration of the 
season. Her whereabouts at that particular time she 
could not designate. 

At this statement, Girdon glanced at Harold, but 
found that gentleman’s eyes turned upon the carpet. 

“We have a visitor to whom I would be pleased to 
introduce you,” remarked Mrs. Northwood to Girdon. 
“ She is at present with a friend, and is expected at any 
moment.” 


148 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


CHAPTER XXL 

This announcement was soon followed by the arrival 
of the guest, who, at the lapse of five minutes, entered 
the apartment in which they were seated. Upon her 
entrance, they arose, and the proper introductions 
ensued, the young lady being presented as Miss Ber- 
rill. 

Lucy Berrill was at the time of her introduction 
here in her nineteenth year, and had but recently 
entered society. In the succeeding pages of this nar- 
rative, she will figure so prominently that it is unne- 
cessary at this time to advert to her past. 

“Lucy,” said Esther to Miss Berrill, “Mr. Warpole 
has been in Europe several years, and has recently met 
many of our friends there.” 

Miss Lucy looked up eagerly at Harold. 

“ And is a friend of Mr. Harold Berwood,” continued 
Esther. 

At the mention of his name, he glanced at Miss 
Berrill, wondering now what fortunate circumstance 
could render his name an object of interest to her; but 
this observation failed to render any interest mani- 
fest. The subject was regarded by her with an unflat- 
tering indifference, all the more apparent when she 
commenced inquiring after some of her friends whom 
he had met. It was certainly unreasonable in him to 
expect the young girl to be interested in Harold Ber- 
wood ; but why had Miss Northwood mentioned his 
name particularly to her? It must be familiar to her; 
and, its mention not being pleasant, he inferred, it must 
be unpleasant ; and, being unconscious of any injury 
which she could lay to his charge, he felt that he and 
the beautiful brunette before him would not be friends. 
But when he looked into her eyes, momentarily raised 
to his countenance, and beheld the innocent trustful- 
ness to which doubt could be but an unwelcome guest, 
he felt that, whatever might be her cause of offence 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


149 


with him, it was just. Various times, in the course of 
their conversation, he alluded to Harold Berwood ; but 
could elicit from her no information or question beyond 
the formal inquiries demanded by courtesy. 

The conversation turned upon his travels, a subject 
which he usually endeavored to elude by reason of its 
frequent recurrence ; but in this instance he felt no 
inclination to avoid it. Miss Berrill evinced a keen 
interest in the topic, and alternated between expres- 
sions of wonderment and appreciation. Harold was 
soon deeply engrossed in his narration ; and the un- 
feigned interest with which it was received by his 
listener justified the care and earnestness bestowed by 
him upon the subject. 

He found no ignorant auditor ; for, though Miss Ber- 
rill had never been abroad, she had apparently read so 
much upon the subjects of their discourse as to make 
her remarks appropriate and her queries intelligible. 
However reticent a man may be, a charming and intelli- 
gent listener is an irresistible temptation to speak upon 
matters through which he can appear to advantage ; 
and Harold, not reticent, imparted shades of realism to 
her pleasing fancies and impressions. Thus they con- 
versed upon various countries visited by him, the people, 
their habits and customs, their science, art, and litera- 
ture, and social, historical, and legendary incidents 
associated with them. 

At times, it was difficult for Harold to determine 
whether he was addressing an enthusiastic girl or an 
intelligent woman. Her unconstrained manner, upon 
hearing a tale both true and marvellous, indicated the 
former; her comments upon causes and effects revealed 
the latter. When once, absorbed by interest in their 
subject, she leaned forward with childish eagerness, he 
regarded her to have not yet entirely emerged from 
childhood ; but when, discovering her simple conduct, 
she composed herself with womanly dignity, which 
she maintained throughout the remainder of the even- 
ing, his earnest and respectful words he felt to be ad- 
dressed to a worthy woman. 

The conversation was a general one, and Roger 
13 * 


150 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


Girdon and Mr. North wood related some interesting 
anecdotes connected with their topics. Not a word of 
all this escaped Lucy Berrill. It cannot be denied that 
Harold experienced a feeling of pride — vanity it may 
appear — as he noted the ever-changing emotions pro- 
duced upon her by his speech. 

In the course of their conversation, names of friends 
were mentioned, but to Harold none of them was famil- 
iar until a certain one was mentioned by Girdon. 

“ Do you know Miss Bertha Laycourt?” inquired the 
latter of Miss Berrill. 

She looked steadily at the carpet for a half-minute 
before replying. Without raising her eyes to the 
questioner’s face, she commenced, slowly and hesi- 
tatingly : 

“ Yes, I have seen her in New York City. I remem- 
ber her well, and would probably recognize her at 
6ight.” 

“I met her while she was a child, and yet I would 
scarcely fail to recognize her,” said Girdon. 

“ She has undergone a change since then ; something 
more than a mere alteration of appearance. She is a 
woman now.” 

Girdon remained silent for a moment, and no one 
seemed inclined to discuss Bertha any more. 

It was late when the gentlemen returned, in silence, to 
their hotel. 

“ Well,” said Girdon, after they had seated themselves 
and lit cigars, “Miss Laycourt is not here, but has 
probably returned to New York. Do you intend to 
follow her ?” 

“ I think I can await her return, without imposing a 
fatal strain upon my patience,” replied the other. “ But 
do you lead the way. You have come here, perhaps 
with no motive other than to please me. I do not ask 
any more sacrifices from you at present, nor could any 
contribute to my comfort. You need not consent to 
remain for my sake, as, I repeat, I can derive no par- 
ticular advantage from my presence here.” 

“ Pardon me, but either I have drawn a hasty in- 
ference, or your remark is a little astounding. Do you 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


151 


mean that it would not now be comfortable for you to 
remain here?” 

“ Why do you lay so much stress upon now ?” re- 
turned Harold. 

“ Because such a condition of things can be only of 
recent origin,” said Roger. 

“ I understand you, Girdon. You think that I have 
fallen in love with Miss Berrill, and do not wish to trust 
myself in her presence by reason of my entanglement. 
This is not your first misjudgment, so it establishes no 
precedent. Your inference, on the whole, is not an 
un mixed flattery ; you regard my heart to be a camera, 
upon which a pretty face makes an immediate impress.” 

“ By no means,” returned Girdon. “ But you know 
from experience how prone we are to form forbidden 
attachments.” 

“ I know also that such conduct is beneath a man, 
without being captious in that judgment,” returned 
Harold. “ A slave is easily reminded of his bondage ; 
but you forget that I bound myself voluntarily, and, 
at the time, cheerfully and I shall abide by that 
action.” 

“ Then let us remain here and await Miss Laycourt’s 
return. I think it will not prove a tedious task ; do 
you ?” 

“ I can await with much philosophy Miss Laycourt’s 
return, however long that event may be deferred,” said 
Harold. 

“ You are evidently not very anxious to see Miss 
Laycourt ; but that illustrates only man’s antagonism. 

I do not doubt but had you been assured that Bertha 
Laycourt, your former friend, was beyond your reach, 
you would be impatient to behold her, then perhaps 
to win her; and yet she could be no more attrac- 
tive. Thus, you see, you judge her under the influ- 
ence of your own circumstances and irrespectively of 
her merits.” 

“Ho, I do not judge her harshly; far from it. I 
liked her as a child, and am sure I shall like her as 
a woman ; but remember, even if I shall not, I am un- 
der the same obligations, which I must fulfil ; and, 


152 


BERTHA LAFCOURT. 


though, I do not doubt that she is worthy of my love, 
how can I say that she will have it ? But no matter 
about that. I suppose it is possible to pass a married 
life without love. On every hand, we find innumerable 
instances 'in proof. Yet, as you say, a steep ascent 
alone can tempt the climber. You cannot pave the 
streets with gems and yet maintain their value.” 

“ True ; but wait one moment ; we are too hasty. 
May we not be chargeable with a hasty assumption ? 
You may, before possessing Miss Laycourt’s hand, 
encounter serious impediments, by no means less for- 
midable because unforeseen. What views may not she 
entertain on this subject ?” 

“ Not so. She doubtless regards herself to be bound 
as firmly as do I myself, although she was but a child 
when the agreement was made. She has never yet 
asked to be released. At least, such a request was 
never communicated to me.” 

“Perhaps, by reason of her youthfulness, she re- 
garded it to be mere child’s play.” 

“No, so I thought, and assumed in a letter to my 
father ; but he assured me of the contrary.” 

Eoger reflected a moment. 

“Well, never mind,” he said. “I would not worry 
much over the matter. After all, you may, by an 
assiduous search, find some generous fellow, who will 
be charitable enough to assume your burden. A young 
lady, answering the description rendered of Miss Lay- 
court and being a wealthy heiress, is not a model 
spinster.” 

“ For that very reason, it seems to me, she ought to 
obtain her release,” said Harold. 

“You ought to feel flattered by her failure to do so,” 
returned Roger. 

“All that I can say is, that my position appears to 
id Harold. “ I suppose, as you 



most happy of mortals ; never- 


theless, the fact remains, I am not.” 

The last words were not uttered in the light, con- 
versational manner in which they had previously 
spoken ; but there was in his last remark a gravity, 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


153 


not untinged with bitterness, which caused his friend 
to observe him closely. 

“ I thought,” said the latter, “ that you had set- 
tled this matter in your own mind to your complete 
satisfaction. Since our return to America, you ap- 
peared to be reconciled fully to your situation ; and 
I thought the matter to be at rest, until our arrival 
here, where you will probably meet her. I regret your 
trouble.” 

“ You treat the question too seriously. I am no 
headstrong boy, who, pledged to one woman, falls pas- 
sionately in love with another, and occasions his friends 
embarrassment in explaining his subsequent exploits. 
I am no longer a tender sapling, mistaking each pass- 
ing breeze for a hurricane. Your suspicions are un- 
founded. I am not in love, nor is there any woman to 
whom I would to-day, if free, offer my hand. I am 
true to Miss Laycourt ; and, if my heart is not faith- 
ful in its devotion to her, at least it is not utterly 
unfaithful. I have no desire to be a bachelor. A 
bachelor, though possessing houses, can own no home. 
His life is too uncertain, and lamentably free from 
care. Having no grave responsibilities, he cannot 
devote himself to any pursuit with that keen relish 
which is to many the prime factor of existence. Thus 
his activity is warped and his faculties are unde- 
veloped. Again, his life is either one of unchangeable 
apathy or insatiable restlessness. I cannot well discern 
the disadvantages entailed, perhaps, by marriage, and 
which may be more serious in their nature ; but, at all 
events, they are more readily avertible. As, then, the 
entertainment of these views renders my marriage as 
probable as it is still remote, why not wed Miss 
Laycourt ?” 

“ You reason upon principles mathematical rather 
than sentimental,” remarked G-irdon. “Do you not 
believe in that mysterious love, so generally maligned 
by its professors ?” 

“Do I believe it?” r* ^ 11 " 1 



avail were that now? 


what could I do ? Could any one be capable of wrong 


154 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


ing that innocent girl who is to he my wife ? It 
requires no sense of chivalry to reject the thought.” 

Eoger remained silent for a minute. Several times 
he was about to speak, but refrained. 

“ I have my own views upon this subject,” he said, 
“ but I am treading upon delicate gfound. It is then 
your intention to remain here and await the lady’s 
coming?” 

“ It is my intention to remain here,” replied Harold. 

Next day, at the invitation of some gentlemen, they 
took part in a banquet. The following day, they at- 
tended a reception, and there again Harold met Lucy 
Berrill. Not without difficulty did he approach her ; 
for the constant engagement of her attention indicated 
that her presence was not undesired. From a slight 
distance, Harold observed her. He heard many ques- 
tions addressed to her, but could only see her reply. 
Several times, unknowingly he bent forward, and found 
that he was not the sole attentive listener. 

At length he perceived his opportunity, of which 
he proceeded at once to avail himself. He exchanged 
some words with her ; but her surroundings precluded 
a lengthy conversation, others claiming her attention. 
Later in the evening, in the hall, he obtained her hand 
in a set, and, the dance being completed, renewed his 
conversation with her. His attempts to draw from her 
information concerning herself were without result. 
All that he gleaned from her in conversation were the 
facts that she had but recently entered society, liked 
it, and that she resided in New York. After each 
one of these statements, which she returned with can- 
dor and brevity in answer to his questions, she made 
inquiries upon various matters connected with his 
travels ; but Harold had not the presumption to sup- 
pose, nor could he from her words or manner infer 
that his connection with the adventures detailed im- 
parted to them any portion of the interest displayed by 
her. 

While still conversing with her, Harold was inter- 
rupted by a personage who had in the forepart of the 
evening aroused his curiosity. Julius Wren was his 


BERTHA LAFCOURT. 


155 


name. He was a young man of twenty-two, in most 
extravagant attire, from the gold-rimmed glasses 
which obscured his sight to the neat slippers in which 
he suffered with fortitude. Add to this, a blushing 
face, a stammer, and grimaces of embarrassment, and 
it is surmisable that he attracted, in their respective 
order, much attention and ignorement, and received 
but little consideration. In view of these facts, when 
Lucy Berrill greeted him with a pleasant smile at his 
approach after some deliberation, and accepted his in- 
vitation to a dance with frank un hesitation, Harold 
was not surprised to overhear the remark, made by a 
sweet-looking girl of eighteen, that Mr. Wren must be 
an earl in disguise, and Lucy Berrill must have learned 
that fact ; no more surprised was he than when he saw 
the same young lady subsequently approach Lucy and 
stroke her hand with womanly tenderness. 

Harold continued to observe Lucy, and her partner, 
who evinced at first more than his usual disconcert- 
ment, but soon appeared at less disadvantage. All 
went smoothly, therefore, until the close of the dance, 
when, through an unfortunate accident for which 
another was partly blamable, Mr. Wren stumbled and 
fell to the ground, and would have dragged his partner 
with him had she not been supported by another 
gentleman. Lucy’s face was suffused with blushes as 
she hastily thanked the gentleman who had assisted 
her ; but, drawing herself up, she approached her un- 
fortunate partner, who had arisen, and placed her hand 
in his arm. 

“ Later in the evening, at our next dance, we will be 
more fortunate,” she said. “Accident tried to mar our 
enjoyment, but could not succeed. I beg your forgive- 
ness for alluding to a circumstance so insignificant.” 

This caused him to leave unuttered the profuse 
apologies which he invoked to his aid ; and again she 
expressed a hint, more delicate than the first but com- 
prehensible, that another invitation would be accepted 
by her; and, having promised him another dance for 
which there were many disappointed applicants, she 
began to entertain a serious doubt concerning the 


156 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


propriety of her proceeding. To the young man, it 
mattered little that his accident had subjected him 
to rudeness and mortification. Lucy afforded him an 
opportunity to retrieve, and he felt triumphant when 
later he led her through a set without error or mishap. 
Strange as it may seem, the unfortunate occurrence 
improved his social standing, as he experienced less 
difficulty in the procurement of partners. 

All these transpirements were observed by Harold, 
who heard many comments made in his proximity, 
and drew his own interpretations. Only for an instant 
did he entertain the thought that her action might have 
been prompted by an especial regard for young Mr. 
Wren ; and then reproached himself with the injustice 
of such an imputation. 

“ I must become better acquainted with that young 
lady,” he said to Girdon, as they sat upon the piazza. 

“ Miss B err ill, I presume ?” inquired Girdon. 

“ Yes,” said Harold. “ It is true that, human nature 
being the highest branch of study, all characters merit 
attention ; but that is beneficial only from an educa- 
tional point of view, and cannot be resorted to for 
individual delectation. When, therefore, we discover 
some one, to observe whom is more a privilege than a 
task, why should we neglect an opportunity so tempt- 
ing?” 

“ I do not think your time will be spent uselessly in 
the task assigned yourself,” said Girdon. 

“ Roger, who is Miss Berrill?” 

“I have expected that question for some time. I 
have had no previous acquaintance with her ; but I 
share your curiositj^.” 

“ It is not curiosity ; it is an interest sufficient to 
justify the question. Her family must be very promi- 
nent, for I observe that the young ladies here defer to 
her, notwithstanding the obvious fact that she does not 
aspire to social leadership, at least not to command ; 
and there must be some influence through which she 
is enabled to exert her power.” 

“ True, she appears to wield absolute power without 
a trace of tyranny. It is singular.” 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


157 


“ Bat not at all inexplicable. It is not the beggar 
who receives most favors.” 

“Well, I understand, from what Miss Northwood 
says, that Miss Berrill belongs to a very wealthy and 
notable family,” said Roger. “ She appears to have 
attained her social eminence with rapidity.” 

“ Yes, she says this is her first season, and I could 
no more doubt any words uttered by her than doubt 
my existence. Let me tell you what I saw her do 
before, while the guests w r ere partaking of refresh- 
ments. Some oranges were passed to her, and, in 
making a selection, she took the least inviting one, 
which had been rejected by others, then stroked it 
gently, as if to soothe its wounded feelings. Our cigars 
are consumed. Had we not better return ?” 

They returned to the hall, and found the subject of 
their conversation in her second dance with young 
Wren, according to her former promise; but there 
was noticeable in her a troubled feeling, arising from 
her indiscreet advances, in the light in which her 
conduct towards her eccentric partner now presented 
itself to her. Reflection had taken impulse to task. 
She was too young to justify an assumption of patron- 
age towards him, and her act was based upon no such 
rude pretence. She did not repent her deed, knowing 
it to have been inspired by no improper motive ; but 
she resolved to be more discreet thereafter. 

Not a word was uttered by any one in his hearing in 
disparagement of her conduct. But this was not sur- 
prising, for women are always magnanimous in judging 
one another. No reward or punishment can impel one 
woman to direct attention to another’s faults. 

He found several opportunities to approach her 
during the course of the evening, but was invariably 
interrupted, without the sanction of his desire. He 
danced but little that evening, but spent much of his 
time in reflection ; and, when unobserved himself, in 
observing a certain other. 

When, at a late hour, he took leave of his hostess, 
the party of which Lucy was a member had preceded 
him. 


14 


158 


BERTHA LAY COURT 


“ It is singular,” observed G-irdon, as they rode to 
the hotel, “ that Miss Laycourt has not yet arrived. 
Do you purpose to remain until her coming, indefinite 
as that is ?” 

“ I do not wish to return to New York in this 
unsettled state ; I must remain,” said Harold. 

“ Yes, your reason is quite obvious,” was the charac- 
teristic reply. “ I regret that I shall have to leave 
you for a week. My business is urgent, else I would 
prefer to stay. Do you think that you can await my 
return here ?” 

“ If you do not remain away too long,” said Harold. 
“ If you prolong your stay until all others here have 
gone, and I alone am left to mourn their absence, it 
may require some search to find me.” 

“ You will find plenty of company until my return, 
never fear,” said Girdon. “Among others, the North- 
woods will remain, though, I have heard, Miss Berrill 
contemplates to leave soon.” 

“ I shall await you here,” said Harold. 

“ I appreciate fully the sacrifice, which may be en- 
tailed by waiting, and, in return, you can ask nothing 
in vain.” 

“Except a reformation of your tongue. Well, I 
shall not be so unreasonable as to ask that.” 

The following evening, Girdon boarded the train for 
New York, and left Harold to indulge alone his medi- 
tations. At this time, solitude was not displeasing to 
the latter. Though enjoying the society of his friend 
and desirous of his return, he found himself to have 
an ample store of subjects for reflection. 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


159 


CHAPTER XXII. 

The following week was passed by Harold in waiting 
for bis friend, as he stated to himself in explanation, — 
a task relieved by more pleasant occupations. This 
week found him several times in the society of the 
Northwoods, at their home and at a reception. On 
these occasions, he met Miss Berrill, but found no 
opportunity to monopolize her attention, whatever 
might have been his inclination. 

One evening, ho was seated in his room, alone with 
thoughts not untinctured with gloom. Having sat 
thus for a time, he arose, and walked to the sea-shore. 
As he passed slowly up and down the beach, this 
melancholy train of thought accompanied him. He 
could not define the source of his oppression, but only 
felt its baneful influence. 

The evening, however, was not of a nature designed 
to encourage morbid feelings. Before him, lay the 
great sea, whose roaring waters quenched, through 
sheer might, the fire ignited in his soul. Above him was 
the moon, imparting to its mirror underneath a share 
of its own lustre, and environed by a myriad of constel- 
lations, bright gems in the crown of the invisible King. 

Harold looked for a moment upon the panorama, not 
the ignis fatuus of the moment, but a work of per- 
manent grandeur, oft beheld and losing naught by 
repetition ; and, as he looked, his absorption with 
selfish thoughts seemed in its insignificance almost 
blasphemous. It w T as a spectacle seen by him often 
before ; but, in his present mood, it produced a deep 
impression. It exercised a tranquillizing effect, in- 
spiring within him the thought that all would be well. 
He would not reason upon the manner in which that 
result could be accomplished. About him were so many 
wondrous creations beyond his comprehension, that he 
was prone to abandon causes, and to contemplate alone 
effects. 


160 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


He was now interrupted by strolling parties, which 
he endeavored to avoid ; and, crossing to a spot appar- 
ently secluded, he was alone until footsteps again were 
heard by him. He turned to leave, for his mood 
invited solitude; but the foremost members of the 
advancing group were too close upon him. The quiet- 
ness with which they came precluded ample notice ; 
and, before Harold could determine what to do, they 
were upon him. Ho less surprised was he than were 
they, on recognition ; but he experienced no displeasure 
to find in the intruders Mr. and Mrs. Northwood, 
Esther and Lucy, the last two walking upon either 
side of a young man, a distant relative of Esther and 
her betrothed husband. The gentleman was introduced 
to Harold as Mr. Prosser t. 

“We did not know that, in coming this way, we 
would be guilty of an intrusion,” remarked Esther. 

“No more did I expect to welcome such agreeable 
intruders, and yet my own desire served as your 
herald,” replied he. “ Did then the evening tempt you 
to the beach ?” 

“ It did, indeed ; it requires no poet or artist to bo 
allured by such a scene,” said Esther. “ Lucy is en- 
tranced with it ; for she is unusually silent, an indica- 
tion that she is deeply impressed.” 

Harold glanced at Lucy at this reference. She was 
standing in the rear, and he advanced a step to her 
side. After a brief conversation, they invited Harold 
to accompany them, a privilege of which he availed 
himself. They proceeded at first in a body, but this 
method was not long maintained. 

“You younger people are too enthusiastic about 
these things,” said Mr. Northwood. “ However lovely 
is the moon, the poor appeal to it in vain for bread. 
The trees which cast these symmetrical shadows 
remove none from the paths of the oppressed. Those 
glittering worlds, which Lucy says almost decoy us 
from our own sphere, will never pay our debts.” 

“ Oh, papa 1 how can you deprive us of the one en- 
joyment open alike to all?” exclaimed Esther. 

“ You speak truly, sir,” said Harold. “ But remove 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


161 


the moon, the stars, and all the elements which lend 
this scene attraction, and see if you remove thereby 
one jot of care, of want or sorrow. Shall we abolish 
all good, because it cannot abolish all ill ?” 

After more conversation of this nature, Mr. North- 
wood and his wife took the lead, Harold and Lucy fol- 
lowed, and Esther and her betrothed were in the rear, 
— far in the rear soon after. 

The fact that it was the first occasion upon which 
Harold found himself in this position rendered it none 
the less agreeable. The first subjects upon which they 
conversed were features of the entertainments in which 
they had recently participated, and, from these topics, 
they drifted into general conversation. But the scene 
was designed to encourage a mood that led them to 
revert to the phenomena surrounding them. 

“ Is it not strange,” inquired Lucy, “ that there are 
still intelligent men who, beholding on every hand 
these wondrous works, lack reverence for their Crea- 
tor ?” 

“Not strange when taken in connection with man’s 
mental construction. There are many men who, see- 
ing a desert transformed into an orchard, are scep- 
tical concerning its creation because they discover in 
its midst a gnarled oak. But, when you speak of 
reverence, do you employ that term as the basis of 
religion ?” 

“ Certainly. What true religion can exist without 
it ?” 

“ They do exist without it. Miss Berrill, we are 
now upon a subject which has already been productive 
of more contention than all other themes combined, 
but which, nevertheless, merits attention, as it involves 
all that is good and pure in man. The field of content- 
ment, which without it man cannot attain, it has been 
made the source of endless misery.” 

“ But truth and religion have outlived the age of 
intolerance/’ 

“Permit me to differ with you. We have outlived 
the age of torture, not of intolerance. Evil deeds 
have yielded but to evil thoughts.” 

I 14 * 


162 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


“ But you do not hold religion chargeable with those 
ancient wrongs ? It is no kin to cruelty or oppression. 
The principles supporting one antagonize the other. 
Oppression, it would seem, arose from differences of 
opinion, which exist on all subjects.” 

u True ; but, if we would rightly estimate the value 
of anything, we must have recourse to the respective 
effects exerted by its being and non-being. Differences, 
as you say, exist on all subjects. Yet have they, in 
another matter, given birth to eternal warfare and en- 
during hatred ? This state of feeling religion has, by 
its misuse, engendered. Were it not in existence, it 
could not be misused, and thus there would be no such 
state of feeling. And it is worthy of note that the 
most bitter animosities to which it gave rise existed 
among men of similar beliefs, differing but in some 
forms of observance.” 

“ Then you think that the world were better without 
than with religion ?” 

“ As to the barbarous world of the past, yes ; as to 
the present, I shall not say no ; but the future day, to 
which we are slowly advancing, demands a different 
reply. For religion is a union of the highest thoughts 
and sentiments of which the human mind and heart 
are capable. It is belief ; a lofty belief in a supernal 
good and wisdom. It is feeling ; a noble feeling of 
universal sympathy. And, when all other thoughts 
and feelings, singly, become inadequate, the soul finds 
vent in reverence.” 

“How can any one live in perplexing doubt ? When 
I look about me and see the lovely forms surrounding 
us, I know that all that is is pure, sublime, holy. How 
could differences have arisen ?” 

“ They arose because, in that inclement season, the 
priceless fruit could not mature ; but awaited], as it still 
awaits, an enlightened age, the reaper of it^ plentiful 
harvest. Have you ever read a great work and not 
experienced a desire to see its author? The same 
feeling animated the people of the centuries past. 
They could not, in their shallow minds, harbor a 
thought of the existence of an omnipotent Power 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


163 


without giving it bodiiy form and attributes ; and, 
human attributes being the highest within their con- 
ception, thus they endowed Him. They imputed to 
Him human thoughts and speech, which lead at all 
times to disagreements. Thus the ignorant utilized 
the Most August for base and bigoted purposes, and 
the thoughts which should have ennobled, debased 
them.” 

“Would they were living now, that they could 
repent ! for to-day a difference of opinion no longer 
leads to persecution.” 

“ Is that the lesson taught by your experience ? Is 
bigotry then dead, and blasphemy a name without an 
owner ? Forgive me, Miss Berrill ; I would I could 
concur in that pure view ; but I have observed too 
many instances in refutation of it.” 

“ How could they ever have done it ? How could 
they hope to make a virtue of oppression, forget that 
all exist by the grace of the same Creator, or for a 
moment think, because some of their fellow-creatures 
might have deserted heaven, that heaven deserted 
them ?” 

“ Do not unbelievers manifest a similar intolerance ? 
Professing freedom of thought to be their fundamental 
principle, they engage in deriding the thoughts of 
others. They would limit their beliefs by their com- 
prehension ; but can we doubt the existence of yonder 
hill because we are unable to analyze the substances 
composing it ? And yet, because some have misnamed 
one substance, others decline to believe that the hill 
exists.” 

“ Surely no one doubts to-day, with the living proof 
around us ? Can they deny the life and relationship 
of all things in nature ? They cannot ignore — for all 
must understand — the language of the birds, the 
whispers of trees and waters. Are not all creatures 
forever connected and do not all partake of nature’s 
loveliness ?” 

“ These are not thoughts nor sentiments binding the 
universe in a common bond of sympathy. What to 
you seem sounds of thought, of feeling, of love, are 


164 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


to the many meaningless, and at times discordant, 
strains.” 

“Indeed! Do we then so differ in thought and 
interpretation ? Then nearly all my life, even when I 
have thought myself to be right, may have been 
passed in error.” 

“ These are not delusions which mislead to injury ; 
and, whether truthful or delusive, your heart alone 
can enlighten you. Why narrow your world 'with 
feeble doubts, because others are unable to agree 
with you ? Landscapes are not painted for the blind.” 

“ It is deplorable that there are any persons who 
have no belief in a future existence, and think our 
lives but short courses, with a definite beginning and 
an abrupt end.” 

“ The past and future states, though certain, baffle 
our conceptions, though we maybe assured that stones 
are not designed to outlive the soul. Our thoughts 
are with the past, our hopes, with the future ; but our 
sympathies are with the present. And is the present 
not sufficient? To the present belong our dreams, 
those happy dreams which in their vagueness find ad- 
ditional charm. In our dreams, clouds are fringed 
with gold ; sparrows excel in bright plumage ; and, 
from densest shadows, issue magic lights of wondrous 
brilliancy. But ah! we suddenly awake, and one 
flickering ray of truth dispels these phantasies.” 

“ Not always so. Sometimes one awakes from 
dreams, heavy and oppressive, to wonder, in his peace- 
ful surroundings, how he could have mistaken a light 
mist for an enduring darkness.” 

Harold turned inquiringly towards her. Could she 
have surmised the real source whence his last words 
had emanated independently of his own will ? and 
was she advancing a delicate consolation ? Only for a 
moment did folly urge the thought. A glance into her 
eyes revealed the fact that her words were prompted 
only by a hopeful nature, upon which, it seemed to 
him, Sorrow would blush to intrude. 

“ Despair will never seek in you a counsellor, unless 
desirous to be reconciled with Hope. You say that 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


165 


life cannot be objectless to any one. Each man to his 
own path. But, of life’s many portraits drawn by the 
consummate artist, Circumstance, what situation real- 
izes your ideal of a successful life ?” 

“ The position of one who has accomplished a most 
noble task, to which he has devoted his lifetime,” said 
Lucy. “ What a feeling of exaltation must possess 
his soul, to contemplate an achievement, in which 
his own success is incidental to the common good !” 

“ And is your picture quite complete ?” 

“ Is it not sufficient ? I appeal to you for aid.” 

“ I imagine the man whose career you have depicted 
unto the realization of a worthy ambition seated in 
his happy home, with those who struggled with him 
through intermediate perils, incited him to worthy 
effort, and who, sharing his high honors and happiness, 
make the residue far greater than the whole unshared.” 

There was a moment of silence. 

“I did not invoke your aid in vain,” said Lucy. 
“ Your picture, a success shared by dearest friends, 
alone can gratify a true ambition, and mine is utterly 
unworthy, a selfish reward, ample for every friend and 
not shared by any.” 

Another brief pause ensued. 

“ Must this result,” he said, “ in your opinion, be 
achieved only through personal effort ? Suppose a man 
to be born to wealth and station ?” 

“ I have heard that wealth and station are fre- 
quently obtained through accident, and can accident 
realize a worthy ambition ? Can it breed noble 
thoughts and generous deeds? We learn in history 
the names of many great and noble men ; but rarely 
find mention of their wealth, though often of their 
poverty. But ” 

Lucy hesitated. 

“ I am going too far in matters about which I know 
nothing,” she said. 

“ For the first time I find myself unable to agree 
with you,” said Harold. “ I concur fully in your views, 
and, once upon a time, deemed it to be the duty of a 
young man of great expectations to renounce his in- 


166 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


heritance until he has earned it, and conduct on equal 
terms the battle for supremacy ; but I have come to a 
different conclusion. If the poor must struggle against 
poverty, the rich must overcome temptation. In these 
battles, the poor are stimulated by necessity ; the rich 
receive no reinforcement, and must rely alone upon the 
will.” 

“ Why should any one forego advantages secured by 
honorable means and helping so effectively to accom- 
plish a worthy purpose ? Such advantages, it would 
seem, ought to beget reproach only through their 
neglect.” 

“ The one difficulty which you will encounter is to 
obtain the concurrence of the poor in that opinion ; for 
the poor often despise the rich, though not their riches.” 

The young girl opened her eyes widely in wonder- 
ment. 

“ The poor despise the rich !” she repeated. “ Why 
is that so ?” 

“ There are two causes contributing to it : envy on 
the one side, and arrogance on the other.” 

“ Do you mean that there is really such a state of 
feeling existing ?” 

Haloid looked at her, in his turn surprised, and 
read in her expression a mingled feeling of amazement 
and concern. 

“ Assuredly, and it will always be. I regret to have 
been the first to call this deplorable condition to your 
attention, for it is quite evident that, whatever others 
may believe or disbelieve, you do not ascribe to malice 
any influence upon human action.” 

“ Ho, I know the world too well for that. Of course, 
people do many things which they ought not to do, 
but they want to do their best, and simply err in 


nent.” 



“ Then you are not one of the philosophers who 
believe that mankind in general is unworthy of ex- 
istence ?” 

“ I would be very sorry to think that there are any 
such,” she replied. “How can men entertain such 
thoughts and yet care to live ?” 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


167 


“ They decline to hold themselves answerable for 
the misdeeds of others ; and, while some of them often 
prove by their own acts the wrongs of which they 
complain, others find in a fair and virtuous life an 
object of existence.” 

“ Can they be philosophers and take such narrow 
views of life ? In such a broad and beautiful world, 
do they find but one object of interest? and can they 
endure life, caring for no one, and feeling that very 
few can care for them ?” 

“ There are some such persons, though fortunately 
few. I would not, if I could, change your belief for 
one so morbidly selfish, for my past life has not been 
conducive to the growth of misanthropy. Yet, let me 
assure you that, while there are some souls which 
feed alone on sympathy, that feel no joy and leave 
no sorrow unshared, were all other classes to become 
extinct, herds would pasture on our crowded thor- 
oughfares. Yet the world is not so heartless as the 
cynics would have us believe.” 

“Heartless! Mr. Warpole, I am an inexperienced 
woman ; but I have seen too many acts of people to 
believe that they are aught but good and noble. I 
have seen the rich magnanimous to the poor, and the 
poor invoke blessings upon the rich. Why should not 
all live in harmony and friendship ? Is not the world 
large enough ?” 

Lucy spoke with earnestness and animation ; and 
her speech, exceptionally lengthy for her, was marked 
by a positiveness revealed only on such occasions. 
Harold regarded her closely, but she did not notice 
that ; all her interest appeared to be engrossed in her 
subject. 

“ I agree with you,” said Harold, “ for I know some 
incidents which must convince every one that there 
are, in human nature, traits to which the most con- 
firmed cynic must bow. An instance occurs to me. 
An eastern train, upon which I was one of the pas- 
sengers a half-hour previous to the catastrophe, was 
wrecked, with fatal results. The officers, approaching 
one of the burning cars, from which most of the pas- 


168 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


sengers bad been rescued, discovered at a window a 
woman, bolding in her arms two young children. To 
her, no terrors did a horrible fate present, as she 
besought the by-standers to save her children. They 
were rescued ; and, with a grateful prayer, she sank 
back, a pathetic, holy being, contented and resigned, 
to perish in the flames.” 

Lucy, deeply moved, remained speechless. 

After a pause, Harold continued : 

“ So much for human love. Is gratitude not equally 
noble ? I heard a story from a source that stamps it 
with the brand of truth. A gentleman, disembarking 
upon an island, ransomed a prisoner from his tor- 
mentors. The poor fellow, vowing to follow his de- 
liverer as a faithful slave, accompanied him aboard 
the vessel. One day, it took fire ; no means of escape 
appeared to the desperate passengers, some of whom 
sprang into the sea. The slave, seeing a board capable 
to sustain but one, swam eagerly towards it for his 
life, when, upon the other side, afar, he beheld his 
benefactor approaching. One longing glance he cast 
upon the plank, then, closing his eyes, to exclude it 
from his view, he sank to rest.” 

The young girl was notably impressed by these an- 
ecdotes. Harold led the conversation back to the 
opinion expressed by her and which had given rise to 
these narrations. 

“ But all are not equally good, equally noble,” he 
said. 

“Ho,” said Lucy. “I know that there are some 
who, blinded by passion, commit deeds from which 
their hearts and minds, if left unclouded, would recoil; 
but such acts, whenever committed, are universally 
condemned, and by no one more sincerely than by the 
doer.” 

Harold was silent for a brief period. He did not 
know what to say. So long as they had conversed 
upon topics in which her information had been con- 
spicuous, her remarks had been confined to questions. 
How, when speaking upon a subject in which her 
speech was recommended only by inexperience, her 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


169 


manner indicated no lack of knowledge. He could not 
assent and would not dissent.” 

“ As a detective, you would be an unqualified 
success,” he said. 

Lucy looked at him inquiringly ; and, from her 
earnestness, her expression changed to a smile, as she 
turned away. Then she tried to recall what she had 
been saying, but had no time to pursue these thoughts 
before he spoke again. 

“ Miss Berrill, if you will give license to my ques- 
tion, have you ever, in the course of your whole life, 
experienced care or disappointment ?” 

“ Yes, indeed,” replied Lucy, “ often ; so often that 1 
could not recall all the occasions.” 

“ Mo, probably not. Can you recall any ?” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Lucy. “ If I think a minute, I can 
easily tell ; but that, it is said, is natural, for every 
one has cares.” 

“ True ; and some find it not difficult to recall them,” 
said Harold. “ Of what weight is care which can soon 
be forgotten ? Though unwelcome, it is but a tran- 
sient guest. I knew your answer before I inquired, or 
I would not have questioned. You say it is the com- 
mon lot. Ho you weigh the troubles of others upon 
the scales of your own experience ?” 

“ Certainly,” replied Lucy. “ All goods and ills are 
distributed with equality, are they not ?” 

“ So, that is your view of life,” muttered Harold, 
audibly. 

“ I do not mean that one person is as wealthy or 
as great as another ; but that, if lacking one of these, 
he has other attributes or possessions to maintain a 
counterpoise.” 

Harold remained silent for a minute and reflected. 

“ It seems that I am again in error,” said Lucy. 

“ It is a subject upon which there are various opin- 
ions, of which no one view has yet secured universal 
adoption,” he said, unwilling to disturb her opinions, 
though unable to concur in them. “Will you per- 
mit me to inquire how long you have resided in Mew 
York?” 


H 


15 


170 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


“ It is more than twelve years since we removed to 
the city,” replied Lucy. 

Harold looked at her and shook his head. 

“ Several times I thought that I had seen you before 

our meeting at H ; there seems at times, to be, in 

your manner and mode of expression, something which 
appeals to my recollection ; and yet, when I attempt 
to name the time or locate the place of our former 
meeting, my memory will not respond to my desire.” 

“ I wish I could aid you bj^ recalling the occasion, 
but I am unable to do so.” 

“You could scarcely remember it, for I have been 
abroad many years. I think I recall it now. Have 
you ever been in Liverpool ?” 

“Ho, sir ; I have never been in Europe.” 

“ Then I am mistaken ; but I have met a lady to 
whom you bear some likeness ; by no means a resem- 
blance, but a similarity of manner and method, that led 
to your connection with her in my thoughts. Is there 
about me nothing which leads you to suspect that you 
may have seen me before ?” 

Lucy turned a glance momentarily upon him before 
replying. 

“ I cannot remember to have met you before the 
evening at Mr. Northwood’s home, nor can I recall to 
have heard your name before that occasion. At the 
time j T ou say you went abroad, I was going to school, 
and continued for some time after that until recently.” 

“ My recollection, vague as it is, does not refer back 
that length of time,” said Harold, “ because, when I 
went abroad, you were yet a child, and it is of no child 
I knew that you reminded me.” 

“ Is it not possible that an identity of names has 
given rise to your impression?” 

“ I do not remember to have heard your name be- 
fore, though I shall remember it hereafter,” he said. 
He spoke earnestly, but with no hidden meaning in 
his words ; it was a frank, informal expression of friend- 
ship, and such Lucy interpreted it to be. 

“I am indeed grateful to you, sir,”. she said. “I 
have entered society but recently, yet I have already 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 171 

met many whom I shall not forget and by whom I 
would not wish to be forgotten.” 

“ You do not then find society the mockery which 
some picture it to be ?” 

“ A mockery ? By no means. How can I entertain 
such an opinion ?” 

“ No, I did not think you to be a misanthrope,” he 
said. 

“ How can I be ? how can any one ? Does not every 
one we meet greet us in a spirit of friendship and gen- 
erosity ? Is it not a great privilege, to be allowed to 
take an interest in your friends’ affairs, and is it not 
noble in them to take the unselfish interest in us encoun- 
tered by us everywhere ?” 

“ Does this unselfish interest extend to all ?” 

“ Certainly,” said Lucy, with that positiveness which 
she always emplo} 7 ed when speaking at the dictation 
of her heart, “ I have never seen it withheld from any.” 

Harold had already learned to express no dissent to 
her sociological views, whatever might be his thoughts 
upon the subjects discussed. At times, when he was 
tempted by contradiction, a glance at his companion, 
so eager and earnest upon her topic, deterred him. 

“ But,” he said, “ have you never, in the course of 
the experience upon which your opinions are based, 
met some persons who have not conformed to your 
ideals of mankind ?” 

“ Yes, several times I have witnessed deeds appar- 
ently neither good nor just; but so often have I found 
mj r self in error, that I ought never attempt to judge, 
lest I misjudge, motives.” 

Harold remained silent, resolved that, if she had 
never met the hordes over whom truth can exercise no 
tyranny, no good could then result through her apprisal 
of their existence. He perceived that to weaken her 
impression of mankind were to lower himself in her 
estimation, and that fact may have contributed to his 
silence, for he had no desire to ehampionize the cause 
of unpleasant truth at such a sacrifice. Therefore, he 
contented himself with the remark : 

“ I have met some worthy people in society ; I 


172 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


ought to be the last person now to find fault with it.” 
And Harold really felt what he said, as he continued 
to walk beside bis companion. 

They had by this time arrived home, Mr. Horthwood 
and his wife having preceded them just within sight, 
and the lovers in the rear being no longer visible. 
Soon after, Harold took bis leave. 

He did not return directly to bis hotel, but to the 
beach he went, to the place where he had met Lucy 
and her party. Up and down he paced, immersed in 
deep thought, of which the object had but then left 
bis sight. He reflected little upon the subjects of their 
conversation, but felt only the impressions produced 
by her remarks at the time they were uttered. 

Poor Bertha ! Could she have seen the hideous image 
which presented itself under her name to Harold for a 
moment, when his thoughts involuntarily reverted to 
her, would she have clung to her determination to be 
true to him? 

But the image of Bertha did not long harass Harold, 
who felt at the time in a mood which blinded him to 
aught unpleasant. Only for a moment was he assailed 
by self-reproach, but this he would not countenance ; 
for was there in his conduct anything to merit it ? 
was it not enough that he remained true to her, at the 
sacrifice so manifestly entailed? Thus he reasoned. 
He could impute to himself no dishonorable thought 
in connection with the observance of his en^a^ement ; 
and, glancing with the sight of recollection into the 
eyes of Lucy Berrill, he felt that aught wherein she 
was concerned must be imperviable to wrong. 

He did not attempt to prescribe bis future course of 
action. In tbe peculiar state of bis feelings, he com- 
muned alone with the present, and from that derived a 
feeling of comfort, an absorbing satisfaction, if not a 
complete happiness. 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


173 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Next morning, when he awoke from a refreshing 
sleep, his thoughts adverted to the experiences of the 
previous evening ; but not with the same result. Sup- 
plemented by the unpleasant reflections which could 
not be subdued, they left him in a state of discontent. 
He remained at his rooms all morning, and scarcely 
spoke with any one. The afternoon was spent in con- 
versing with some gentlemen who claimed his atten- 
tion, and upon a drive. But for the evening, without a 
definite reason, he rejected all proffered engagements, 
and, at a certain hour, revisited his favorite spot at the 
beach. 

From the glance which he cast not infrequently in 
various directions, a spectator might have inferred that 
he was expecting an appointee, but that was not the 
case. He had made no appointment ; and if, notwith- 
standing that fact, he expected to meet any one, he 
was disappointed. Whatever might have been his 
object in going to the shore that evening, it was not 
accomplished ; for, when questioned by himself upon 
the subject, it was quite evident to him that he was 
not greatly pleased with the result of his walk. 

On returning to his rooms, he sat down to read, 
and selected a book which, by reason of its excellence, 
had theretofore with ease engrossed his interest ; but 
several rereadings of passages could now give him no 
clue to their meaning; and he renounced the book in 
favor of a popular composition. Even -this superficial 
matter presented locks to which his mind could fit no 
key, and his conclusion that reading was not then 
within his range of entertainment was not without 
justification. Closing the book, ho arose, and paced 
the room ; but this occupation afforded only temporary 
relief, and again he sought outside diversion. In this 
restless manner, he passed the evening, and felt 
tempted at various times to call upon some friends ; 

15 * 


174 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


but there was only one place upon which his desires 
concentred, and to this place he would not then go. 

Only when the evening was far advanced, too far to 
permit indulgence of his desire, did he question him- 
self more specifically as to an occasion for his restraint. 

“ If I were to reveal my present thoughts and acts 
to G-irdon,” he ruminated, “ he would banter me about 
being in love. With whom ? Ah ! if it were a fact, 
little difficulty to name the one. But it is not true. It 
must not be. I have determined that it cannot be ; it 
cannot be without my wishes, and so it shall not be. 
Did I in truth love her, could I offer her a false heart 
and dishonored name? But all this is preposterous. 

“ Then why do I avoid her ? Or, to be friends with 
truth, why do I covertly seek her while openly avoid- 
ing her ? Man seldom obtains that which he most de- 
sires ; but does he ever wilfully avoid it ? Can it be 
that I fear to meet her? The man who fears to trust 
himself is a base coward, and I am such a one. 

“ Why is this? Ever since my boyhood up to man- 
hood, was not my fancy attracted by women, to whom, 
but for the tie that binds me now, I would have sworn 
eternal love? Yet I could trust myself then, and now 
I require a guardian. I fear to trust myself in the 
presence of a young girl whom I know only two 
weeks. Two weeks, two happy weeks! Yes, yes, it 
is different : she is not like the girls who captivated my 
youthful fancy, then idly threw away the toy. Her 
would I trust with my life and honor. 

“ What have I done that I must be debarred from 
even the enjoyment of her presence ? I am no garru- 
lous fool. I never shall breathe a word to her. I shall 
not rest in moral slavery. To-morrow I will see the 
woman whom I dare not love.” 

He suddenly stopped his rapid pacings, amazed at 
his own warmth of feeling. It was not the usual calm 
expression of Harold Berwood which he saw reflected 
by the mirror. Drawing a cigar from his pocket, he 
seated himself, leaned back in his chair, and smoked. 
Again he was composed. 

The following day, he took a drive upon the road on 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


175 


which ho had several times met Lucy and her compan- 
ions. He bowed right and left to friends passing him, 
hut could not see Mr. Horthwood’s carriage, already 
well known to him. Presently it appeared in sight, and 
from afar approached him. Hearer it came, until within 
a distance at which he could salute its inmates. Only 
Mr. and Mrs. Northwood ; Lucy was not with them. 
If Harold felt any disappointment at this discovery, no 
trace of it was visible upon his features as he drove 
beside the carriage and conversed with his friends. He 
remarked upon the absence of Miss Horthwood and 
Miss Berrill, and, in response to his inquiries, was 
assured of their health, and their absence was ascribed 
to Lucy’s wish. 

At this moment, they met some other acquaintance, 
and Harold, after loitering a minute, raised his hat and 
proceeded on his drive, but not until he had accepted 
Mr. Horthwood’s invitation to dine with him that 
evening and have a game of billiards. Upon his arrival 
at his hotel, he was handed a letter. He placed it in 
his pocket, and, having reached his own apartments, 
soon after broke the seal. The handwriting, very 
good and legible, despite an appearance of agitation on 
the part of its writer, was not familiar to him, nor did 
the signature disclose to him a former acquaintance- 
ship with the Writer. The letter, slightly differing in 
nature and substance from the ordinary types of cor- 
respondence, read as follows : 

“ H. Warpole, Esq. : 

“Sir, — I desire to give you fair warning that your 
late conduct has not escaped my detection, however 
secret you may have thought your workings. Yes, 
I will tell you more. I saw you the other evening, 
walking by the side of Miss Berrill, and I tell you I 
won’t endure it. You have come here as an interloper, 
a meddler in my affairs, and I was satisfied to let you 
remain so long as you attended strictly to your own 
business ; but I won’t have this. Mind, I won’t have 
it. I make no threats. I offer you no reward to go ; 
but it will be best for you to go at once. Beware of 


176 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


my vengeance. I don’t want to harm you, — I am try- 
ing to keep cool, — but I don’t want to be interfered 
with. You are dealing with no ordinary man. Don’t 
trifle with me. Miss Berrill is not for you ; in fact, she 
is altogether above you. I swear that if I don’t get 
her, no one else will, and I mean more than I say. So 
take care. 

“ Any one’s but yours, 

“B. A. T” 

Harold placed the letter upon a chair, and looked at 
the wall inquiringly, as though expecting from it an 
elucidation. 

“ Who or what is Mr. B. A. T. or Mr. Bat ? He 
evidently loves her, yet has no patience with any one 
else who does. Well, he must be more blind than his 
name indicates. I presume I shall be honored with his 
visit next. No, that would hardly be consistent with 
his previous methods. Well, plenty of time.” 

Five minutes thereafter, the letter and its writer 
were supplanted by more agreeable subjects ; and, by 
the time Harold started to fulfil his appointment, the 
mysterious writer was forgotten. 

The only effect produced by the letter was to add 
another source of justification to his intention to see 
Lucy. Having resolved to discountenance moral cow- 
ardice, he felt no longer any reluctance interposing in 
the way of his desire. 

In such a frame of mind was Harold as he approached 
the house, to which he was now warmly attached. 
He had seen, in the city, dwellings of greater preten- 
sions, more skilfully sculptured and with more impos- 
ing turrets ; but as, notwithstanding the charms of 
feature and complexion, human beauty lies in expres- 
sion, so the attraction about a house is not dependent 
upon a quarry. To Harold, this particular mansion 
seemed to hold forth an invitation, which he was at all 
times loath to reject. 

Eesponsive to his summons, he was admitted by a 
servant to the drawing-room, in which two ladies were 
seated. At his entrance, one of them arose, to greet 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


177 


him. It required no aid of light to reveal her identity ; 
but, so far as politeness would permit, this superfluous 
aid was employed by him. The other lady, Mrs. North- 
wood, remaining seated, apologized to him upon the 
ground of an indisposition to which she was subject. 

A minute thereafter, Mr. Northwood appeared, and 
Lucy, returning to Mrs. Northwood, administered to 
her further comfort. At times, the lady expostulated, 
but Lucy paid no heed until she effected her purpose. 

“ There,” she said, “ now I am under your orders.” 

“ You are a spoiled child,” said Mrs. Northwood ; and 
Lucy continued her task. 

Luring the meal, she sat beside Mrs. Northwood, 
and, together with Esther, rendered her necessary as- 
sistance. 

After dinner, Mr. Northwood challenged Harold to 
a game of billiards, and they repaired to the billiard- 
room. Both gentlemen were good players, Harold 
being perhaps the superior; but that evening he was 
outplayed by scores. This result was contemplated for 
a time by the elder gentleman with extreme satisfac- 
tion. 

“What is the matter with you, Warpole?” he in- 
quired. “ You appear to be unable to play this evening.” 

“ You outplay me. That is the fact, and, at the 
same time, its reason,” replied Harold. 

“ No ; self-defeat confers no victory. Your thoughts 
would probably undergo no change by the removal of 
the ivories ; they are fixed upon a more interesting 
object.” 

“You are indeed my friend, to furnish me a plausible 
pretext. I shall make another effort.” 

The effort, though gallant, was unproductive of 
reward. Harold, though watchful after being thus 
rallied, was hopeless of victory, and made no special 
efforts to prolong the game. But he was not thus 
easily relieved of his torments. 

“ Shall we have another?” inquired the old gentleman, 
glancing over his spectacles at Harold. 

If any one has devised a more torturesome punish- 
ment than is often imposed by courtesy upon incli- 
m 


178 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


nation, he has not yet made public his invention. 
Harold assented with a hearty disinclination ; and, as 
he saw no alternative, made play an object by van- 
quishing his opponent. This done, his actions evinced 
an undesire to play longer, and they returned to the 
drawing-room, where they were soon met by the 
ladies. 

During the evening ensuing, Lucy was busied greatly 
with attention to Mrs. Horthwood, yet Harold was 
well entertained, though, for the most part, by others. 
But this was as it should have been ; for he was by 
this time a family friend, and the occasion of his visits 
was not arrogated to any particular cause or person ; 
certainly not by Lucy, who, while bearing, to his in- 
finite satisfaction, the portion of his entertainment 
falling to her charge, managed to share the respon- 
sibility with others. He even suspected that she 
sought to avoid him ; but her manner, frank, and free 
from any embarassment, upon meeting him, dispelled 
this suspicion, and he reproached himself for his in- 
ability to appreciate a character, to study which he 
deemed a high privilege. But what he regarded to be 
most singular was the appropriateness of her conduct 
to his position ; her acts were apparently adapted to 
his situation. It almost seemed to him as if she knew 
his position and was inclined to establish a proper re- 
straint. Entertaining this suspicion for a moment, he 
felt some resentment at the guardianship of accident 
or divination ; but these thoughts also found an in- 
hospitable expulsion. Moreover, the idea that she 
could suspect his real position seemed preposterous ; 
and not for an instant did he doubt that her action, 
founded upon whatever motives, was in this connec- 
tion, as in all else, beyond the touch of doubt or ques- 
tion. 

He was often importuned by a sense of honor to 
reveal his identity j but reflection convinced him that 
his disguise was, at most, innocuous ; and he was 
deterred by the recollection that he had not yet at- 
tained his object. Eventually,., if it should become 
important, he would make a full disclosure ; but, as 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


179 


yet, he could perceive no occasion for such action, and 
could give others no rational explanation of his course. 
Moreover, who had a right to know ? He had taken 
no undue advantage of any one, and could not per- 
ceive wherein his innocent deception would produce 
injury. 

The evening succeeding the receipt of the anony- 
mous note, he started from his room to the beach, 
which had now become a favorite resort with him. 
Though all the evenings since his meeting with Lucy 
Berrill at this place were of surpassing loveliness, he 
did not again meet her there. The fondness which she 
had once professed for moonlit walks had evidently 
vanished. Not that he expected her there; that were 
too unreasonable and presumptuous ; but there was 
always coupled with a pleasant recollection, a hope for 
something agreeable and undefined. 

He was not there long upon this occasion ere he 
became aware that he was not alone, and a brief ob- 
servation convinced him that he was under surveil- 
lance. Sheltered by a friendly tree, was the figure of 
a man, who had obviously no desire to reveal his 
presence. Harold paid no further attention to the 
man, took a seat upon a rustic bench, facing seaward, 
and lit a cigar. At the lapse of half an hour, he arose, 
having meanwhile forgotten all about the tree and its 
companion. But he had not proceeded very far before 
he was suddenly confronted by a person, whose figure, 
tall and thin, proclaimed him to be the man formerly 
under the tree. He was standing directly in Harold’s 
path. The latter removed his cigar, and surveyed him 
at leisure. His peculiar appearance justified attention. 

He had a pair of light gray eyes, restless in their 
sockets; a heavy moustache, extending on either side 
an inch beyond its resting-place ; hair, long and un- 
parted, hanging down over his high forehead, on which 
were two protuberances. His hair, moustache, and 
chin-whiskers were of a light-brown color. He was 
attired in costly and ill-fitting clothes, arrayed care- 
lessly about his person. A high collar, and a large red- 
and-blue tie seeking the proximity of his shoulder, 


180 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


contributed vastly to the effect of bis appearance. 
All this Harold had time to observe while his com- 
panion waited for a reply to his first demand. 

“ I must speak to you,” repeated the new-comer, per- 
emptorily. “ Wait and hear what I have to say.” 

Harold regarded him with a look of mild curiosity. 

“Is it about the tree?” he inquired, pointing with 
his thumb over his shoulder towards the tree beneath 
which his companion had been concealed. 

“ No, sir; no, sir ; no, no, no ; nothing of the sort. I 
have no time to spend on trees.” 

“ Might you not have missed an important engage- 
ment while you were watching that no harm come to 
me ?” questioned Harold, in a slow voice, in contrast 
with the abrupt manner of his companion. 

“ I don’t care what harm comes to you,” was the 
stranger’s frank avowal. “ I have something more im- 
portant to speak about.” 

“ Indeed, from your position behind the tree, I in- 
ferred that you were communicating some important 
matter to it. Proceed at your own pleasure, sir, but do 
not impose a too great burden upon my curiosity.” 

“ I want you to leave this place,” said the long-haired 
gentleman. 

“ Is that all ?” queried Harold. 

“ Immediately,” continued the man. 

“ Certainly, that was understood.” 

“ You have no business here, — you are only med- 
dling in my affairs, — Miss Berrill does not care for you, 
— you have no right to annoy her, — I won’t have it ; I 
want you to go away.” 

“ Are you Mr. Bat ?” 

“ Bat ? What do you mean by Bat ? why don’t you 
answer me ?” 

“ I thought perhaps you might know who you are. 
I am certain no one else does. Did you write a letter 
to me and sign it B. A. T. ?” 

The stranger hesitated. 

“ What if I should tell you that I did not ?” he ques- 
tioned. 

“ Nothing further than that I would not believe you.” 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


181 


“ Sir, you go too far, too far. I am a man of honor, 
sir.” 

“That description corresponds,” remarked Harold. 

“ I tell you I did not write that letter. I wrote that 
letter because I wanted you to go. You must go 
away.” 

“ Will you grant me time to have my trunk checked ?” 

The stranger clutched his hair in rage and stamped 
upon the ground. 

“Don’t goad me too far,” he said, “ I don’t want to 
do anything violent, but ” 

“ Let your fear be your only restraint,” said Harold. 
“ But tell me, Mr. Bat, — for by that name I shall con- 
tinue to address you until you reveal some better, or, 
what is more probable, some worse, — wait until I finish, 
take your time, and tell me something concerning your- 
self, your business and your present purpose, as you 
have already made me your confidant in more impor- 
tant matters.” 

The stranger’s mien had by this time undergone a 
striking alteration. He favored Harold with a look 
of supreme contempt and deigned to make no re- 
sponse. 

“Very well; your answer, though not eloquent, is 
sufficiently expressive. The society of a man ashamed 
to reveal his name and occupation is not designed to 
flatter one’s vanity. Farewell, Mr. Bat.” And Harold 
proceeded to move on. 

“ Won’t you do me the kindness to stay a little longer, 
if only for a minute ?” pleaded the stranger. 

“ Certainly,” said Harold. “ Kings more often stoop 
to beg than beggars rise to conquer. I am willing even 
to waive my questions concerning yourself, as the sub- 
ject is evidently of no importance.” 

“ Mr. Warpole, I am surprised in you ; I am sorely 
disappointed in you. In fact, I am grieved to find you 
so different from what I expected. I thought you 
would treat me with due courtesy and respect, sir, or I 
should not have spoken to you.” 

“ I could not avoid treating you with due courtesy 
and respect,” said Harold. “ But come ; let us have done 
16 


182 


BERTHA LAYCOTJRT. 


with this palaver, for I see you are now inclined to be 
rational. What would you have?” 

The gentleman hesitated a moment before replying. 

“Mr. Warpole, is there anything special which binds 
you to this place ? Could you not be induced to go 
away ? Could not money get you to leave ? Hame 
your own price.” 

“You perceive,” said Harold, “you have disclosed 
your business, notwithstanding your intention to the 
contrary. You are accustomed to traffic in your ab- 
sence from cities, and undoubtedly meet a generous 
patronage. Why you renounce a so profitable sale, to 
become a purchaser yourself, you have not yet ex- 
plained.” 

“ Mr. Warpole, I am sincere in my offer. I will give 
you a hundred, two hundred, yes, one thousand dollars, 
if you leave this place forever. I have not the ready 
money now. I lost my violin lately — a glorious in- 
strument, — you should have heard it — the heavenly 
sounds it produced in my hands, — it was burned 
through my own fault. Yery well. I blame nobody 
for that. But I have not the money to pay you now ; 
yet I pledge you the word and honor of a gentleman, 
sir, to pay you every cent. I shall put it in writing, 
if you insist, although my word is good enough.” 

For the first time, Harold’s face assumed an expres- 
sion of amazement. The proposition startled him, and 
he took time to recover his self-possession before reply- 
ing. 

“ I marvel at your diffidence. How can you doubt 
the goodness of your credit ? Ho doubt, your promise 
will be redeemed, if only by another promise. Your 
offer appears to me fair, in fact munificent, and I shall 
give it the mature reflection which it justifies. A 
month or six weeks may suffice. Is our business 
closed ?” 

“ If I give you a month to consider — although that 
is much too long — will you promise not to see Miss 
Berrill in the mean time ?” 

“Let us allow that to depend upon circumstances,” 
said Harold. “ Thus far you have been so moderate, 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


183 


that I know you will impose no unreasonable con- 
ditions ; and I shall endeavor to prove my gratitude. 
I hope you are satisfied, Mr. B. A. T. ?” 

“ Professor Benton A. Towser is my name, as you 
must be aware, sir, unless I overestimate your intel- 
ligence. I fear that you do not treat this matter with 
sufficient seriousness, Mr. Warpole.” 

“ For the first time, you are unjust, Mr. Towser,” 
said Harold. “ But that I may fully share your zeal 
for my removal, will you impart to me the nature of 
your interest in Miss Berrill ?” 

The stranger hesitated. 

“ I never tell any one my business,” he said. 

“ So I inferred from your previous communications 
to me,” said Harold, and he would have dismissed the 
subject to which his question pertained, had not the 
stranger himself recurred to it. 

“ Sir, sir, you know not what you ask. You could 
not understand me. You ordinary men do not com- 
prehend, — and I don’t blame you, you cannot compre- 
hend the feelings of one who has the true poetry of 
love in his soul. I have never spoken even to her about 
it. I saw her several times at places where I had the 
honor to be the chief musician. She must know me, 
and I know she understands music. She herself plays 
the piano excellently; and I flatter myself that, as a 
visitor, I would not prove unwelcome to her ; but I am 
a man of honor, sir, and I shall not say a word until I 
can offer her a name of which any woman can be 
proud. The day is not far distant. I have a brilliant 
future ; but until then I shall not let others trouble 
her and incite perhaps a passing fancy which she may 
mistake for real friendship. It is always well to act in 
time.” 

Harold listened to this narration with real interest. 

“ But why do you remove your rivals instead of de- 
feating them in a fair contest ? Can a man of your 
high ambition be contented with a prize gained without 
an effort ? A bloodless war is an inglorious victory.” 

11 Ho, I do not want any more in this world than I 
deserve, and I do not want to battle for that all my 


184 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


life,” said Professor Towser. “ It is enough to fight 
the ignorant world and the villanous fellows who try 
to rival you in a high profession for which they are 
not fit.” 

“ Hot the aim, hut the choice of means, proclaims 
the man,” said Harold. “ Therein consists the differ- 
ence between man and man ; for, after all, the great 
and the ordinary have many common aims and am- 
bitions. But, professor, you have asked me to leave ; 
of how many men have you made the same request ? 
Are all who see Miss Berrill, or have the honor to be 
addressed by her, doomed to banishment ?” 

“ By no means ; I am not so unreasonable as that, 
but all men do not go out to intercept her in her walks, 
to have the privilege to walk by her side. You are the 
first man whom I have asked to leave, and I ask you 
only because I want you to do it.” 

“ Then you still insist that I leave this place at the 
expiration of my reprieve ?” 

“ If not before,” said the professor, bowing affirma- 
tively. “Yes, I am sorry, Mr. Warpole, because I like 
you personally, and, under other circumstances, would 
like to have you stay, and would not deem it a dis- 
honor to associate with you; but, as it is, I see no 
alternative.” 

“ Well, professor, hope for the best ; and, meanwhile, 
assume, for your own comfort, that I have already 
gone. The only means by which you can maintain 
that pleasant delusion is by avoiding me, a favor which 
I would not otherwise ask. Consequently, you must 
not shadow me any further.” 

“I have not shadowed you, sir; such conduct is be- 
neath me ; I was near you that evening only by acci- 
dent.” 

“ And by accident I found you here this evening, I 
suppose ?” 

“Entirely so.” 

“ Yery well ; then let accident, which appears to take 
so deep an interest in our affairs, maintain a proper 
distance between us. Another matter I wish to call to 
your attention. I am a negligent correspondent ; and, 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


185 


if you receive no answer to an anonymous note, pre- 
serve your patience, and wait for a reply before you 
write another. This course will further tend to main- 
tain our pleasant relations.” 

“ The letter, you need not regard any further,” said 
the professor. “ Perhaps I was a little hasty in some 
respects ; but, with the knowledge that you now have 
upon the subject, you can see that I could have acted 
no differently.” 

“ Not consistently with your ideas,” said Harold. 
“ Well, it is late and we must part. I hope we fully 
understand each other. You give me six weeks within 
which to leave the city. If, after the expiration of 
that period I remain, I relinquish my claim to your 
promise to pay me one thousand dollars, and the in- 
terest which would probably accrue upon it until paid. 
Again, you promise to be favored no more by accident 
concerning my whereabouts and to write me no more bil- 
lets-doux. Professor, good-night. This meeting was 
an entirely novel one in my experience, and I am glad 
to have met you.” 

The professor wore a dissatisfied expression, as though 
not entirely pleased with the result of his interview. 
Once or twice he made a movement to recall Harold, 
but changed his intention. 

Harold bestowed considerable attention upon his in- 
terview with the professor ; not so much because of any 
importance attached by him to the latter’s eccentric 
acts and wishes as to the one who had innocently oc- 
casioned them. 

The following evening, he again saw Professor Tow- 
ser, but under different circumstances. The occasion 
was a concert in which the professor took a prominent 
part as a pianist, and which Harold attended upon the 
recommendation of Mr. Northwood. Meeting there 
certain persons expected, he mentally concluded that 
the concert must be a success ; but some vocal solos, 
which produced many encores and much enthusiasm, 
weakened this favorable opinion. Eesponding to an 
encore , the artists rendered other numbers with equal 
success, evoking from several well-dressed individuals 
16 * 


186 


BERTHA LAY COURT 


in the audience the remark that they had never heard 
better performances, — a fact that could be readily in- 
ferred. Then Professor Towser, the pianist, took his 
seat, and rattled off one of those selections which, re- 
plete with discordant and inharmonious chords, always 
inspire an audience with a classical admiration. Many 
of the more appreciative were breathless while they 
listened. The playing was accompanied with the usual 
physical contortions ; and, at times, when dwelling upon 
a single note, the professor raised his eyes towards 
heaven, whence he derived his inspiration. His per- 
formance was listened to with great attention by one- 
half of the audience, and heartily applauded by the other 
half. 

Harold was surprised to learn, two days later, that 
the professor had accepted a favorable engagement on 
a western tour, and had already left the city. The 
note written by the professor, and which conveyed this 
information, further unfolded his intention to remain 
absent only until he achieved fame, reminded Harold 
of his promise, and recalled to him that, as an honorable 
man, he was bound to its performance more firmly by 
the absence of the man who would else have superin- 
tended its execution. Whether or not the professor 
ever secured the fame sought by him was never defi- 
nitely known to Harold ; for to him the professor was 
soon lost among the millions who constitute a wise and 
discriminating public. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

The novel proposition made by the professor fur- 
nished Harold Berwood another strong reason for re- 
maining in the proximity of Miss Lucy Berrill. How 
the professor was away, but the inducement was not 
affected by his absence. Yarious circumstances con- 
spired to strengthen his resolve to remain ; but a host 
of reasons could add no strength to his inclinations. 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


187 


By some mental process which he did not fathom, 
his aversion to the tie that bound him seemed to render 
it more firm, probably by reason of the conspicuity in 
which it was brought by such feelings. That he would 
wed Bertha Laycourt was with him a foregone con- 
clusion ; but that event would not transpire until some 
period more distantly connected with his past. In the 
mean time, he could perceive no valid objection to his 
cultivation of Lucy’s friendship. He determined, if 
effort could beget success, to gain a friendship which 
he prized so highly. 

He exonerated himself from the charge of seeking 
after her society, — a charge preferred only by himself. 
At the same time, he admitted that her presence af- 
forded him a gratification derivable from no other 
source. It was not always an easy matter to obtain a 
seat at her side and converse with her upon the topics 
which he found to enlist her interest. Though in 
society but a brief time, she appeared to have a large 
number of friends and visitors, who claimed a great 
share of her attention. She received all in a charac- 
teristic manner; and Harold, as he observed, resolved 
never to hint at the briefness and insincerity which 
usually serve as the escorts of friendship. His ob- 
servation had already taught him that in her eyes the 
cynic alone could suffer through his cynicism ; and he 
deemed it better, under such circumstances, to bow to 
truth in perfect silence before reaching its threshold 
than to take the risk to trespass unawares upon its 
province. But, though she treated all with perfect 
courtesy, it was evident to him that all did not share 
equally her esteem. That was fortunately beyond her 
power to give at mere will, for it must have been ac- 
quired, if bestowed. 

Since the departure of his friend Girdon, Harold 
had heard no word of Bertha Laycourt ; in fact, had 
heard no mention of her name ; and he was prone to 
infer that perhaps she would not return and their 
meeting would be still longer deferred. Or, if her 
continued absence were ascribable to accident, that 
could beget from him no criticism. He was sorely 


188 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


disappointed in Bertha. He was sufficiently just to 
her to recall that his impressions of her at their last 
meeting had been most favorable ; and he regretted 
his error in estimating her character. He could not 
reconcile his good opinion with the fact that, notwith- 
standing his desire, Bertha did not offer to release him, 
but maintained a burdensome constancy ; for, as virtue 
often begets reproach where vice escapes censure, this 
constancy on her part did not tend to better their 
relations. He seldom would admit to his thoughts the 
recollection that all of his friends who had seen her 
since his own meeting with her, spoke of her in terms 
which would not be disparaging to the claims of Lucy 
Berrill; that fact was unimportant, as worthlessness 
often obtains common approbation. She might have 
gained these good opinions merely through her ap- 
pearance ; or, perhaps, worse still, through the hypoc- 
risy which to the masses requires no introduction. 
This feeling, coupled with the firm hold obtained by 
his fetters through his attempt to shake them off, 
rendered him at times unusually grave. 

He was in this mood one evening, when he started 
from his hotel, to meet an engagement with Mr. North- 
wood. He regretted now to have made it ; but, having 
made it, regrets were unavailing. Upon his arrival, 
he learned that Mr. Nortbwood had fallen asleep ; and, 
being ushered into the drawing-room, he found himself 
alone with his unpleasant thoughts until the entrance 
of a more agreeable companion in the person of Lucy 
Berrill. 

What became of his gloomy thoughts as she ad- 
vanced to meet him was a problem which he did not 
attempt to solve. As usual under similar circum- 
stances, they vanished; but, in this instance, his relief 
was immediately succeeded by a feeling of sadness and 
regret. He took her extended hand, pressed it, and, 
with secret reluctance, relinquished it. 

Lucy took a chair near the sofa, on which, at her 
invitation, he was seated. 

He learned that Mrs. Northwood and Esther were 
attending a reception, from which Lucy absented her- 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


189 


self because it was the desire of her guardian that she 
avoid social dissipation, and she feared that she had 
already transgressed. But to this point their con- 
versation was not long directed ; for Lucy seldom 
spoke of herself, never unless questioned. In fact, the 
reticence on this one subject of one so candid upon all 
others had occasioned him some thought and specula- 
tion ; for it exceeded the most stringent requirements 
of modesty. All that he knew of her former life was 
that she was under the control of a guardian, with 
whom she resided in New York, and that she was 
believed to be an heiress ; beyond that, all that he knew 
concerning her was based upon inference and impres- 
sion. 

He listened to her remarks with close attention, but 
was inclined to speak little. This inclination he was 
unable to follow, as Lucy’s speech was confined chiefly 
to subjects upon which she sought information probably 
within the range of his knowledge. Thus his attention 
was diverted for a time from its absorbing object. 

He felt that evening in no ordinary mood. His soul 
pleaded for her presence as an only boon ; yet, that ob- 
tained, he experienced a sense of great loss. He would 
fain have cast aside this thought ; but could not. He 
wondered whether his life would not have been passed 
in more contentment if he had never seen her; and 
quickly discarded the idea as most ignoble. Wish never 
to have seen the sun because its light may reveal a 
desolate spot ? A monstrous wish it were. 

Being thus thoughtful, he spoke less than usually. 
His tone and manner bore evidence of a weighty sub- 
ject on his mind, and Lucy sought, by speaking more 
than was her wont, to cover his shortcoming. Usu- 
ally her optimistic views of life charmed him, even 
when opposed to his experience ; but this evening, 
listening to her healthy-minded discourse, he shook his 
head. 

“ How gladly would I be converted to your views of 
life,” he said, “ believe this world to be the paradise 
created by your imagination, and think our hopes im- 
planted in a soil where disappointment cannot blossom. 


190 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


Bat where is the garden with the chosen fruit ma- 
tured ? The gardener cannot control the storm.” 

“ Yet great storms are infrequent.” 

“ True, but many trees, the growth of years, are up- 
rooted by a single storm. So many hopes, the nucleus 
of all desires, are, by one event, forever fettered to de- 
spair.” 

“ The strong oak triumphs over the storm.” 

“ And finds its favorite branches broken and dilapi- 
dated, its youthful kin stretched prostrate at its roots. 
The strong man outlives his misfortunes \ but his mis- 
fortunes often outlive his hopes.” 

“ You have seen the world which has appeared to 
me only like a dream, — a confusion of imagery and 
events. How dare I venture to dissent from your 
views ?” 

“ Yes, fortunately, in the world of sorrow and disap- 
pointment, you lack experience ; then why should I ex- 
press such thoughts to you? How can you, whose 
wishes are harbingers of events and to whom disap- 
pointment is known only as we know the distant plan- 
ets, concur in views apparently so morbid ? It is not 
possible ; nor is it possible for me, with due regard to 
the dissentient views which you will not express, to be 
unimbued with a touch of your own hopefulness. You 
believe in universal happiness, extending not only to 
man, but to all speechless forms ; for, in your thoughts, 
I infer, they are symbols of human existence.” 

“ More than symbols. Companions ; friends ; ana- 
logues.” 

“ Which, do you think, approaches, in kind and prop- 
erties, most nearly human life ?” 

Lucy reflected some moments. 

“ The flower,” she said. “ The soul of beauty, it is 
present upon all occasions, festive and sorrowful, and 
even at the grave does not desert us. Its priceless 
value is not dependent on selfish rareness. Unselfishly 
it shares its charms with many companions, whose 
proximity but enhances its own loveliness.” 

“Ah ! but soon the beauteous flower, like all images 
delightful to the soul, is lost forever.” 


BERTHA LAY COURT 


191 


“ To sight ; to recollection, never.” 

“ True, true. Whoever can forget that which he has 
loved and lost, yet loves far, far more deeply than all 
else retained.” 

Having uttered these words, Harold became con- 
scious that his thoughts had taken precedence of his 
judgment, and he hastened to reswear allegiance to 
discretion. 

“ You hesitated some time before replying,” said he. 
“ What object was it that rivalled, in your thoughts, 
the flower’s supremacy?” 

“ The tree. Often, on a summer’s morning, I go into 
the garden, and a feeling of inexpressible bliss is im- 
parted by the language of the leaves. Their senti- 
ments find repetitions in my heart. But, standing be- 
neath the same tree after a severe storm, I have heard 
it mourn its lost branches so piteously, its sighs would 
not have failed to penetrate a heart of stone.” 

“ Do you thus commune with the speechless forms 
of nature ?” 

“ Speechless ? Are words the only messengers of 
thought ? Is speech like this mistakable ? Can any 
one misinterpret it ?” 

“ You entertain the idea that all give the language 
of nature a common interpretation ? The impressions 
produced by an object, seen, depend upon the observer 
no less than on the object, and each one, through his 
fancies, creates his own conditions. Thus, you shed 
tears in sympathy with surrounding objects that do 
not challenge another’s thought, however worthy.” 

“ They have occasioned me more happiness than sor- 
row. At nearly all times, they extend a bright and 
joyous welcome. Often I have been unable to under- 
stand them ; and, at times, they have seemed to me to 
be dumb and inanimate ; but I have learned to know 
them and to love them.” 

“ Knowledge is so far short of understanding — who 
can affirm your belief to rest upon a scientific fact, or 
who deny that in its scope is embraced calm reason, as 
well as the workings of a vivid imagination ? Who 
dares assert that animals and plants, deriving their 


192 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


origin from the same source and developed under the 
conditions governing man, are not, like man, blessed 
with reason and consciousness ? I have wandered from 
the subject.” 

“ Permit me to remind you,” said Lucy, “ you have 
not yet named the object which you think to bear 
closest affinity to human life.” 

“A mountain is the archetype of man,” he said. “Its 
heart, filled with conflicting elements and forces, is an 
impenetrable mystery. What noble heights it oft at- 
tains ! what scenes sublime can we not witness there ! 
Towering far above surrounding objects, it seeks am- 
bitiously the lofty gates of heaven. Alas ! what a hope- 
less aspiration ! Then does it find its height, seemingly 
so boundless, to be but a limited altitude ; and, having 
risen miles unto proximity, cannot ascend an inch re- 
quired.” 

“ Does man indeed find such a barrier to his progress ?” 

“ In attainment, no ; daily he meets new opportuni- 
ties. But, when he strives to obtain that which he 
most desires and sees it within reach, he may prepare 
for disappointment, with assurance. One can accom- 
plish more than he can obtain. A man can do for 
others much that he cannot do for himself.” 

“ Does not that prove the triumph of good over sel- 
fishness ?” 

“ That is the lesson which you naturally evolve; but 
those who encounter the hidden obstacle to their de- 
sires are slow to arrive at any conclusion other than 
that they have incited the enmity of a secret and 
relentless agent of fate.” 

“ My grandfather says : ‘ Fulfilment is a cancellation 
of our hopes ; and, adding nothing, takes from us 
what we already have.’ ” 

“ But, like all observations engendered by experience 
and reflection, it is designed to apply only to the gen- 
erality of cases. Our hopes are so many and unreason- 
able that, to check the morbid growth, nature has 
adopted the remedy mentioned by you. But there are 
some desires which, selfish though they be, are dedi- 
cated to an object so pure and holy as to impart to the 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 193 

selfish wish of possession a touch of its own sacredness. 
Such hopes cannot be nullified by their fulfilment.” 

He spoke throughout with less reserve than he would 
have displayed had he noted in his listener a suspicion 
of the fact that some of his remarks emanated from his 
own present feeling and experience. He led the con- 
versation to various subjects. Had he been interrogated 
upon his object in introducing some of these, he would 
have had to admit the presence of an ulterior purpose, 
with which the obtainment of information had little 
connection. He liked her opinions, even when erro- 
neous. She presented the world in a refulgent light, 
humanity in purest attributes, nature in a most noble 
and exalted aspect. Her views, though expressed by 
an inexperienced girl, pleased, improved, ennobled him. 
It is fair to assume that Lucy never addressed a more 
appreciative auditor. 

Mr. and Mrs. North wood now returned. Harold 
tarried awhile, then departed. 

“ I have a letter for you, Lucy,” said Mrs. Northwood. 
“ I suppose you know from whom it is ?” 

Lucy’s appearance betokened the correctness of this 
surmise as she advanced eagerly to receive the letter 
and kissed it before perusing its contents. 

“From your manner, one would infer that it is a 
letter from a lover,” remarked Mrs. North wood. 

“ It is,” said Lucy. “ It is from a true, an ever-faithful 
lover, one whom I shall forever love, honor, venerate. 
Will you read my lover’s letter?” 

So saying, Lucy handed the letter to Mrs. North- 
•wood, who read its contents, unimportant in fact, how- 
ever influential in etfect. It was from a gentleman, 
a Mr. Hugh Laycourt, and was evidently written to 
Bertha Laycourt. 

Having thus identified Bertha with a young lady 
whose advent into society had already been made with 
so much success, a brief retrospect will reveal the 
causes of her presence there and the assumption of 
her pseudonyme. 

From the time that Bertha and her grandfather had 
the conversation in the course of which she learned 
i n 17 


194 


BERTHA LAYCOTJRT. 


that her engagement would subsist only if reconcilable 
to her own free will, her anxiety to be released departed. 
All its uncomfortable restraints vanished with magical 
rapidity, and she was left to contemplate without ap- 
prehension the weighty responsibilities of her position 
and its romantic features. She entertained no shadow 
of suspicion at that time that her novel engagement 
would ever culminate in marriage. 

In fact, marriage was a subject which had never 
received any attention from her beyond the dreams 
and fancies to which her reading of fiction gave birth. 
This fact was in great measure to be ascribed to her 
education, which was wholly theoretical. Attention 
to her studies, continued up to this time, — though she 
was no longer attending any seminary, — left her no 
opportunity to acquire a practical knowledge of life. 

Notwithstanding this fact, however, she took an 
earnest interest in all her surroundings. She knew 
but little of the cares and miseries of life, for stained 
glass clothes sights in gorgeous colors; but that there 
was poverty — though, she believed, only in exceptional 
cases — she knew, as well as the fact that, towards the 
alleviation of actual suffering, her grandfather con- 
tributed generously. He often requested her to direct 
his attention to any object in which she could utilize 
his aid, but she never ventured to assert her thoughts 
and wishes as incentives for his acts. A large portion 
of her own allowance was contributed to institutions 
which devoted to charitable purposes all the moneys 
received by them and not embezzled by their officers. 
But she had not sufficient practical knowledge to ren- 
der her aid effective. She never dreamed of the vast 
numbers, houseless, friendless, and forsaken in the 
midst of flourishing communities, and had no thought 
but, among the wealthy numbers which constituted 
the social circle in which she now moved, benevolence 
was a guiding motive, philanthropy a ruling passion. 
For that reason, poverty and its accompanying evils 
received from her but little attention; and the deep 
sympathies of her soul sought channels in the grave be- 
reavements which neither wealth nor poverty escapes. 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


195 


Bat, up to this time, the close of her nineteenth year, 
comparatively little sorrow had harrowed her soul, and 
life to her was a bright and glorious picture, the world 
two rows of evergreens, lining the path which con- 
nected her life with happiness. 

Mr. Lay court understood her nature, and contributed, 
by all means within his power, to its proper develop- 
ment. Withholding from her all knowledge of an un- 
pleasant character, indulging her hopeful theories, and 
casting no blemish upon the paintings of her imagina- 
tion, he would not reveal to her the dangers and anxieties 
menacing existence ; for, that troubles of the character 
ordinarily afflicting mankind would ever harass her was 
a thought scarcely sooner conceived than dismissed by 
him. 

At this time, Mr. Laycourt was called west upon 
important business matters. He was inclined to take 
Bertha with him, but his friends opposed the project. 
He had promised Mrs. Northwood to let her take 
Bertha with her to various summer-resorts, and the 
promise of her society had been made to other friends. 
Mrs. North wood now insisted upon the fulfilment of 
this promise, and he yielded to her claim. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Strange, perhaps, that Harold Berwood, while clearly 
perceiving the advantages at times obtainable by a 
concealment of one’s name, gave no thought to the 
possibility of another being impressed with the same 
idea ; but so it was. The same thought did occur to 
another, and that one none other than she from whom 
he sought concealment. 

Yet it was not strange that, while Harold desired an 
opportunity to observe, from a position of concealment, 
the young lady upon whom he was to bestow his name 
and fortune, that young lady, actuated by a similar 


196 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


purpose, sought the same means of accomplishment. 
Bertha heard very little of Harold, and only through 
his father, to whom he wrote periodically. The con- 
tents of these letters were sometimes read by Mr. Ber- 
wood to Mr. Laycourt in her presence ; but the letters, 
though interesting by reason of their substance, had 
no poetic value for her. She did not favor them with 
sufficient attention to be enabled to recognize his letters, 
although some of his characteristics were observable in 
them. She had read many fine compositions, and these 
letters left no abiding impressions. 

The times she thus heard of him were the only 
occasions upon which her thoughts adverted to him to 
any considerable extent ; and Harold, earnestly wish- 
ing at times that Bertha would forget him, could he 
have enjoyed the confidence of truth in that regard, 
might have been deeply gratified by the complete ful- 
filment of his wish. 

Harold had now been absent more than six years, 
And was expected during the approaching summer. 
Bertha heard this announcement with unconcern until 
the time was near at hand, when, at times, she ex- 
perienced some anxiety. She entertained no fear of 
coercion, her confidence in her grandfather being in- 
deed an unswerving faith ; but she could not know in 
what embarrassments the attempt to shield her might 
not involve him. This would depend, of course, upon 
the character and disposition of Harold. If he really 
felt bound by his engagement, as she had been informed 
some years before by Myrtle Stratton, then he had a 
right to expect equal constancy on her part, and in its 
absence would be disappointed and offended. She de- 
termined that, if the future would develop such a state 
of feeling on his part, she would adhere to their agree- 
ment. Thus much was settled definitely in her mind, 
that she would give him no cause of offence. 

The subject came up in conversation between her 
and Mr. Laycourt. 

“ Well, Bertha,” said the latter, “ now that Harold 
is to return soon, you will be under the necessity to 
form some conclusion. This, of course, you need not 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


197 


do until you see him. But have you at present any 
intentions in this regard ?” 

“ Yes, grandpapa ; I have thought over this matter 
very much, and if you will let me ” 

“ You need fear no interference from me,” said Mr. 
Laycourt. “ This is a matter which mind and heart 
must jointly decide. The mind may be represented by 
another, but the heart knows no agency. Now, having 
in your own hands the sole power to determine the 
question, what is your present intention ?” 

“ I — I do not know,” said Bertha. 

“ That is right. The state of your mind is quite sat- 
isfactory ; you are open to impression and conviction, 
and will receive him, though without bias, with no prej- 
udice.” 

“ He may not like me,” suggested Bertha. 

“ True ; singularly enough, that possibility escaped 
my attention ; but, again, he may ; and upon that as- 
sumption, let us proceed at present.” 

“ I will follow your wishes, grandpapa,” she said. 

“ And my wish is that you act upon your inclina- 
tions. I thought, however, that you had learned to 
like Harold somewhat.” 

“ I shall always feel like a sister towards him,” said 
Bertha. 

“ Yes, my dear, but do not tell him so. For him, 
that would be a surrender rather than a compromise. 
Many young girls, having a sisterly love for men, have 
rejected them ; while not one has ever accepted the man 
who has gained her sisterly affection.” 

Bertha promised cheerfully to comply with his in- 
structions. 

As time passed and Harold did not arrive, he was 
again forgotten ; and, when she was informed that he 
was expectable at any time within the current month, 
the information came too late to arouse her apprehen- 
sions, for her company had already been promised for 
the season to Mrs. North wood. Bertha was more eager 
now than ever to redeem this promise. She knew that 
she must soon meet Harold, but desired to defer that 
event as long as possible. By some means, it came to 
17 * 


198 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


the knowledge of Esther Northwood, indirectly through 
a correspondent of Eoger Girdon, that Harold would 
be at N during the season. This information pro- 

duced great consternation, his presence there being en- 
tirely unexpected by them ; for N , the place which 

the Northwoods first designed to visit, was not a favor- 
ite resort, nor was it frequented by their Hew York 
friends, though it attracted many fashionable persons 
from other places. From there — where it had been 
Mrs. North wood’s first intention to spend the season — 
she resolved now to take her protegee to the more favored 
sites. 

It appeared to Bertha that this programme was not 
entirely destitute of romance and adventure, and her 
own assent she gave with alacrity. But now, it seemed, 
fate was bent upon her meeting Harold, go wherever 
she would. She wondered if he would recognize her. 
Of her own recognition of him, she entertained no 
doubt; but that he would recall her was improbable, 
because a photograph taken years before revealed the 
fact that, since his departure, her appearance had un- 
dergone a vast alteration. Of course, he would at once 
recall her upon the mention of her name by any one ; 
but that she thought to be the only clue. Then why 

not change her name ? She was unknown at N , 

and the Northwoods had ample time in the interval to 
be familiarized with the name assumed. 

When this idea occurred to her, her grandfather had 
already gone, and she was at Mr. Northwood’s home. 
She was impatient to communicate her plan to Esther, 
who was engaged in town making purchases. Further 
reflection only strengthened her design. No suspicion 
of the possibility of injury resulting to any one from 
her act intruded upon her thoughts. She looked only 
at the romantic features of the project, which was 
greatly strengthened, however, when the excellent op- 
portunity afforded her to study Harold without being 
known to him presented itself to her mind. Filled 
with enthusiasm, she went in search of a confidante, 
but could find none. It was not so long as it appeared 
to her before Esther returned, and learned her plan, 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


199 


which was enthusiastically approved by Esther, and 
the two young girls devoted considerable attention to 
the selection of Lucy Berrill as a sobriquet. 

Bertha’s assumed name was, of course, not adopted 
without some difficulty; her friends hesitated when 
they uttered her name until hesitation at that point 
became almost habitual ; but the result desired was 
finally accomplished ; hesitation gave way before prac- 
tice, and Bertha commenced to know herself as Lucy 
Berrill. Soon after the departure of her grandfather, 
she travelled with the Northwoods to N . 

It was the first time since she had entered her grand- 
father’s home that she was separated from him by a 
distance not quickly traversable. The day succeeding 
his departure, and, for a time, each succeeding day, she 
received a letter from him ; and, by degrees, her long- 
ing for home vanished. When she started with her 
friends upon their journey, she was fully resigned to 
her situation, and entered heartily into the enjoyment 
of her new surroundings. 

The day being of exceptional beauty, the scenery 
was a source of great delight to the two young girls, 
both of whom had travelled but little, and to whom 
many sights, passed daily without interest by many 
travellers, presented novelty and attractiveness. 

At N , everything was found in readiness for 

them, according to expectation. It was a handsome 
place, and Mr. Northwood’s villa was large and com- 
fortable. 

To the friends of the Northwoods at this place, the 
young heiress became known as Miss Lucy Berrill. In 
a letter written to her grandfather before her departure 
from New York, she related her design with much detail, 
dwelling at length upon the interesting factors of the 
situation and its probable developments and conse- 
quences. Not until she had sealed the letter did it 
occur to her that perhaps he would not approve her 
action, and she was startled for a moment by the 
thought that possibly she had done wrong; but she 
was reassured by Mrs. Northwood. The next letter 
from her grandfather was addressed to Miss Lucy Ber- 


200 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


rill, and therefore bore an appearance of unusual cold- 
ness ; but her fears were allayed by the letter itself, in 
which Lucy Berrill received no mention. 

Bertha appeared with characteristic ardor and inter- 
est in the society congregated at this place, and her 
social success was sufficiently great to gratify the most 
ambitious. She had more invitations than time to re- 
spond; and this fact, necessitating many rejections, oc- 
casioned her much concern. She found it difficult, in 
observance of her grandfather’s instructions, to avoid 
social dissipation ; but his will, so far as it related to 
her acts, never failed to compass its own execution. 
Excursions, receptions, and explorations, — all figured 
in the list of entertainments. Nothing seen was devoid 
of interest to her, and no one met was indifferent. A 
stranger to design, with thought relieved only by in- 
telligence and culture from a childish simplicity, the 
measures which would have suggested themselves to 
many in her position did not occur to her. If it ever 
came to the mind of any one that, in appearing to the 
world without revealment of the ties which bound her 
to another, she might be, however innocently, perpe- 
trating a wrong, she was not that one. Nor did the 
North woods make allusion to this phase of the situa- 
tion ; for to them her future marriage to Harold was 
nothing more than a possibility outlined and depending 
upon a contingency for future adoption. The thought 
occurred to Mr. Laycourt, but it aroused no serious 
apprehension. 

“ That is quite proper,” he reflected. “ Mrs. North- 
wood has promised to be very careful in the choice of 
her associates, and I shall not be absent long. She 
will meet Harold there ; and, if he cannot hold his 
own against whoever may appear as a rival, he is 
unworthy of her; and, being unworthy, he shall never 
have her.” 

Nevertheless, it will not appear strange that, in the 
hearts of some of her friends, she inspired something 
more than a merely passing interest or admiration ; 
all the more probable by reason of her utter ignorance 
of this fact. In truth, her education contributed largely 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


201 


to this ignorance. Always treated with a consideration 
not the product of an imperious demand, it never oc- 
curred to her that this treatment was attributable to 
any special claim, but she ascribed it to the general 
good will of mankind, as manifested to her by her own 
feelings. In all the attentions paid her, she saw nothing 
but a reciprocation of her own friendship. 

Perhaps her impressions would have undergone a 
wondrous change if she had been constrained to listen 
to the declarations awaiting a proper time and oppor- 
tunity for a disclosure. But, during the first two weeks 
of her stay, she was not made aware of the existence 
towards herself of any feeling beyond sincere friend- 
ship. 

It was at this time that Harold Berwood arrived, 
and met her under the circumstances already detailed. 
Prone to be friendly with all living things in nature, 
she found no cause to make an exception of him. His 
graphic descriptions of the scenes beheld in his many 
travels and the information acquired by him rendered 
him an interesting companion, and his visits were no 
unwelcome intrusions. Bertha could not repress the 
thought that he differed from the majority of her as- 
sociates, and that the difference did not inure to his 
disadvantage. Beyond this reflection, he enjoyed no 
regard denied to others ; for superior mental endow- 
ments and knowledge may attest their possessor’s 
worth to one in whom it may never excite a feeling 
beyond admiration. 

Thus it was that Bertha, while recognizing in him 
an instructive friend, never dreamed of the influence 
which he was destined to exert upon her future. Ac- 
cident contrived their frequent meetings, which natu- 
rally cemented a friendship resting upon a reasonable 
basis. As her acquaintanceship with him improved, she 
found in his ideas something beyond cold reason in- 
viting her concurrence ; and the marked deference to 
her views, whenever she was tempted to express them, 
the kind solicitude shown by him for her comfort, and 
his unuttered appeals to her favor, were productive of 
reward. His arguments pleaded with her reason, his 


202 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


sentiments ofttimes addressed her sympathies, his de- 
scriptions lent to their association the charm of poetry. 
This was the extent of his claims to her favor. 

Not so with Harold. He could conceal the truth no 
longer from himself ; and, through suppressed thoughts 
and struggling emotions, emerged the comprehensive 
truth. 

He sat one evening, in his rooms, in the contem- 
plative mood which had begun to grow habitual with 
him. Near him was seated his friend Roger G-irdon, 
who had that day returned from New York. 

“ Roger,” said Harold, breaking the silence, “ I shall 
go away from here. I have resolved to go.” 

“ A very sudden resolution,” replied Girdon, “ and 
one which your father will scarcely approve. He 
questioned me very closely upon the reasons for your 
failure to return with me, never thinking that you 
were so near your home; and I found it somewhat 
difficult to explain your absence and silence, but opined 
that you would be home within a week.” 

“ Within a week I shall have gone. I cannot help 
it, Roger, I must go.” 

“ You must go ? why? But I can surmise ” 

“ No, you cannot surmise. You think it is because, 
while bound to one woman, I prefer another. That 
thought no more describes my feelings than does a % 
flickering candle represent the sun. Listen. I do not 
fear to tell you. I do truly love her. Roger, under- 
stand me. It is a tale in which I delight. Is it 
strange ? is it inexplicable ? You seem surprised.” 

“ By no means,” said Girdon. “ I marvel only at 
your unusual warmth.” 

“ Is it unusual? Yes. I have repressed my feelings 
until now ; now they speak, and speak they must. 
My words are but their feeble exponents. You think 
that I exaggerate. I tell you no. At times an ocean 
seems a shallow pond. To me, it is but a drop, impal- 
pable beneath my love.” 

Harold was silent for a moment, paced up and down 
the room and paused before his friend. 

“ I have displayed much warmth, unusual, as you 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


203 


say, in my expression. But now you know the truth. 
Let us speak calmly upon the subject, while we smoke.” 

So saying, he drew a cigar-case from his pocket, 
and the two gentlemen smoked in silence for a time. 

“ You appreciate my situation,” said Harold. “ Then 
do you not see that I cannot act differently ?” 

“ Your position is certainly an anomalous one,” said 
Girdon. “ But I do not see why it should be a per- 
petual source of trouble. It would perhaps not be a 
very difficult matter to obtain your release from Miss 
Laycourt, and then ” 

Harold raised his hand, and Roger stopped. 

“Ho, never. Formerly, it might have been both 
proper and advisable ; now it is neither. How, having 
allowed my engagement to subsist this length of time, 
and all interested, including Miss Laycourt herself, to 
regard the matter to be definitely arranged, it would 
be grossly improper — yes, villanous — to disavow my 
own act and recant, for my own purposes.” 

“ If I understand you, then, this is the gravamen of 
your position : did you not love Miss Berrill, you 
would perhaps ask Miss Laycourt to release you ; but, 
loving Miss Berrill, you deem it dishonorable to make 
that request. Ho I comprehend you ?” 

“ Perfectly,” said Harold. 

' “ Then it is the very occasion of your purpose that 
defeats it ; for, did you not love Miss Berrill, you would 
not wish to be released.” 

“True; but the conclusion does not rest there. 
Before I met Miss Berrill, Miss Laycourt and myself 
were similarly bound and situated ; now I would bo 
acting only for my own advantage.” 

“ How do you know ? She too may love another.” 

This suggestion first struck Harold with great force, 
but its logical effect was destructive to Girdon’s argu- 
ment. 

“ True, she may love another ; and yet she does not 
ask to be released,” said Harold. “ Then how can I do 
so ?” 

Roger perceived that, by an unfortunate error, he 
had greatly weakened his position ; and Harold’s ad- 


204 


BERTHA LAYCOTJRT. 


vantage in the debate strengthened his determina- 
tion. 

“Yet I see no occasion for your leaving the coun- 
try,” said Boger. “ One does not usually fly from the 
object he loves.” 

“No. I do not fly from Lucy Berrill; I do not fly 
from my love. But every day that I remain renders 
me more false to my betrothed. You do not know 
what it is to have within your sight the sweet object 
of all your hopes, and to reflect that — hapless paradox 
— proximity but increases its distance. I must leave 
this place. I must learn, in the distant world* to for- 
get her, — no, not to forget her, for that were to forget 
the world itself. I must learn to fqrget my love of 
her. First, then, let me forget all else connected with 
myself, before I can forget the better portion of my- 
self. No, let me not undertake too great a task, lest I 
fail. I can learn, by absence, that she is far away; 
and, in foreign lands, I can recall to memory the one 
who attracts me to these shores and drives me from 
them, a recollection of both sorrow and content.” 

“ Harold, do not be in haste. Let us think about it. 
Something may be done. How unfortunate that we 
came to this place 1” 

“ Unfortunate ? Wherever I go, whatever may occur 
in future, I shall look back upon these days as the hap- 
piest of my life. Ho you believe that, even if I could, 
I would forget her? My thoughts, but recently im- 
partial to surrounding objects, are centred upon her. 
My hopes and wishes she alone can claim, and all else 
in nature seems pure and beautiful only through the 
magic influence of her presence. You do not know the 
life I have led the last two weeks. With her, dark 
clouds that threatened to engulf the world gave place 
to radiant sunlight ; and, in her absence, even the sun 
seemed dull and cheerless.” 

G-irdon regarded him attentively. 

“ I never knew that love could be so warm, so 
ardent,” he said ; “ nor did I think that in so brief a 
time you could thus be enamoured. You have evi- 
dently returned to the former days of your youth.” 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


205 


“With more assurance, if you will,” said Harold, 
“ having the strong support of reason on my side ; but 
you will not liken a youthful fancy, exceeding scarcely 
an admiration for a beautiful face, to the love borne 
one in whom this possession is but an index to her 
many graces. Because I have again and again ap- 
pealed to reason for an explanation of my love and in 
reason it has found its ablest champion, I look upon 
it not as the folly of youth, but as a sentiment upon 
which I rely for condonement of past follies. I admit 
I have spoken somewhat warmly, and may have made 
use of some hyperbole, but my words do not exaggerate 
my feelings. I admit that I have said more than under 
the circumstances is proper and prudent ; but you can- 
not realize the feeling of relief with which one who 
must subdue his deepest feelings, and even subject his 
words to a strict repression, can once unbosom himself 
with freedom and unreserve. I have done so. You 
know the grounds of the course contemplated by me. 
I shall leave at once, perhaps to-morrow.” 

“ Without seeing your father?” 

“I cannot see him at this time. How can I ex- 
plain my position to him and how justify my speedy 
departure ? Moreover, I prefer to remain unknown at 
present to my friends at Hew York.” 

“Perhaps your father, knowing your feelings, can 
set this matter right.” 

“Ho, of that there is no hope. His letters have be- 
come more and more earnest and resolute. I have his 
assurance that my failure to marry Miss Laycourt 
would be the most bitter disappointment with which 
fate could afflict him ; and, upon my return to Hew 
York, when I shall continue actively my writings upon 
travels, he expects the marriage to be consummated 
with little delay. To these letters I responded at first 
with protests founded upon unsound arguments, and 
easily overcome, until I was led to a tacit acquiescence, 
and from that to casual mention of the event deemed 
by us to be approaching. Thus, you see, I am enmeshed 
by my own acts.” 

“ Your father desires the marriage only as a means to 
18 


206 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


farther your welfare. I have no doubt that, when he 
discovers his means to be abortive, he will abandon it.” 

“ If his purpose were alone to be considered, I would 
not hesitate a moment to enlighten him upon the true 
state of my feelings. But I understood from his letters 
that the matter is regarded to be determined, and from 
this statement I did not dissent. Therefore I told you 
that it would not be proper for me to ask to be released.” 

“But think of the position in which you leave your 
father and the others interested, especially Miss Lay- 
court. Picture to yourself the feelings of a lady, 
proud, — perhaps haughty, of high birth and social 
standing, to be left in a position ” 

“I do not need to contemplate such a lamentable 
picture,” said Harold, “ for I certainly do not propose 
to contribute to its existence. Abroad, I first must 
learn to think of Lucy Berrill as though she had ap- 
peared to me only in a dream, and my happiness, like 
the illusion, to have fled. Then I shall return, pre- 
pared, if not content, to fulfil my obligations.” 

“If that is your ultimate object, your present de- 
sign is not bad. I cannot accompany you to Europe, 
but I can meet you there in three or four weeks ; and, 
I presume, under the circumstances, until then you 
will not mourn a loss of company. Does Miss Berrill 
know of your intention to leave ?” 

“ Ho, I have informed no one as yet except yourself. 
But what is it to her ? I have — it is with no indiffer- 
ence I say it — I have gained her friendship, to me of 
inestimable value. But what is mine to her ? She has, 
or can have, as many friends as she numbers associates ; 
and the loss of one can be of no great consequence.” 

“ Sometimes it is not ; sometimes, again, it is. See 
what the loss of one is to you, though you may have 
that one replaced by a host of others.” 

“ I understand you, Boger, but your fears are ground- 
less. Whoever may be the being who can incite in her 
the holy and poetic love within her soul, he has not 
yet appeared. It is enough for me that I have gained 
her confidence and friendship. These are jewels which 
I may retain and prize. But even were I capable to 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


207 


inspire her love for me, my situation would then be all 
the more painful. She does not know I love her. 
However imprudent I may have been in feeling, I was 
not so in action nor in speech ; and fortunately she does 
not suspect the truth. But I err in ascribing that fact 
chiefly to my discretion ; for it were impossible for any 
one to breathe to her a word of love without the per- 
mission of her heart, revealed through some innocent 
action or inaction, from which leave could delicately be 
implied. But you must not mistake me, Girdon. My 
words may have led you to believe me under the in- 
fluence of emotions in utter disregard of judgment. If 
so, it is an erroneous impression. I am not the man to 
attempt to win, while engaged to one woman, the love 
of another. I believe you now comprehend my posi- 
tion, and will aid me in the execution of my purpose. 
I must leave without delay, and return with as little 
delay as possible.” 

Boger expressed no further disapproval. 

“ By the way,” he said, “ You have forgotten the 
purpose for which we first came here. Let me remind 
you that we came to meet Miss Laycourt, but did not 
succeed to do so. The cause of our failure, I discov- 
ered while recently in Hew York. I made inquiries 
of some friends concerning the Laycourts, and learned 
that they had gone west to spend the season, but their 
return was expected daily. Miss Laycourt, I under- 
stand, is one of the party.” 

From this observation, it may be inferred that Boger 
Girdon had not applied to Miss Lucy Berrill for his 
information. 


CHAPTEB XXYI. 

All this time, the subject of their converse was 
oblivious of the fact that, while cultivating a friend- 
ship from which she derived instruction as well as 
entertainment, she had innocently encouraged in her 
friend a love, deep, boundless, and enduring. 


208 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


Had Bertha been asked if this love were reciprocated 
by her, she would, as Harold surmised, unhesitatingly 

have answered no. She had not come to N with 

any fear to fall in love with any one, nor had she be- 
stowed a single thought upon the subject. For the 
time being, she was promised to another; and, unless 
broken by force of reasons satisfactory to her grand- 
father, that engagement would subsist. These were 
the feelings which, without an analytical process lead- 
ing to their formation, accompanied her to N . 

When Harold’s actions demonstrated, to the dissatis- 
faction of observing ladies, that, among all his many 
friends, she was the one whose company he sought, she 
did not heed this comparative mode of estimation, and 
regarded his attentions to be but the compliment which 
they conferred. When he took advantage of every op- 
portunity to render her service, however great or small 
required, it was natural that she experienced more 
gratitude than she expressed. But his quiet, manly 
bearing and the subjects broached by him revealed 
to her no trace of the deep feeling which at times 
prompted his speech ; and his discretion averted her 
embarrassment and his loss of the society so highly 
prized by him. 

Through correspondence with a friend, she learned, 
without inquiry, that Harold Berwood, though ex- 
pected, had not yet arrived. This information occa- 
sioned her no great concern, though she looked forward 
to his coming with no apprehension, and, on the con- 
trary, anticipated with some pleasure the novel ad- 
venture. In conversation she and Esther frequently 
alluded to this meeting, as well as to the improbability 
that in Lucy Berrill he would recognize his betrothed ; 
and both young girls found much enjoyment in their 
speculations. However, the deferment of the event 
occasioned her no disappointment. 

Mr. Northwood’s villa was surrounded by a large 
garden, in which a gardener was engaged to cultivate 
the trees and flowers, and, in this labor, the two young 
ladies rendered much unsolicited assistance. In one 
corner was a large tree, whose branches overhung a 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


209 


small space, almost enclosed by fruitful bushes and 
evergreens. In the enclosure was a rustic bench, clad 
in a mantle of ivy. On this bench Bertha was wont 
to sit at times, while engaged in reading. 

One day she sat in this place, and perused, with deep 
interest, the pages of a choice volume of poems. For 
some time, she was thus engaged without interrup- 
tion. 

She heard the front door close, and, in the visitor de- 
parting, beheld Harold Warpole. At the same moment, 
his eyes, directed towards her, discovered the object of 
their search, and unhesitatingly he approached her. 

Bertha closed her book and arose. He stood before 
her, hat in hand, with a mute apology. She extended 
her hand to the intruder, who obtained permission to 
seat himself beside her. The first object which claimed 
their attention was the book which she had just been 
reading, and she was pleased to discover that her com- 
panion had actually seen some of the romantic spots 
with the description of which the poet had riveted her 
interest. 

“ You probably infer,” said Harold, after some time, 
“ that my visit at this hour is ascribable to some unusual 
circumstance. It is. I have come to express my regret 
arising from my inability to accept Mrs. Horthwood’s 
invitation ; for next Friday, the day set, I shall be far 
away from you, — from this city.” 

“ Must you leave so suddenly ? Perhaps you will be 
able to return in time ; else, I am certain, Mrs. Horth- 
wood will postpone the reception.” 

“ Ho, I shall not be able to return in time, Miss Ber- 
rill ; I must go away at once, and not for a day nor a 
week. It may be — forever.” 

Bertha looked quickly at him in surprise. 

“I am so sorry,” she said. And, having said this, 
with Harold’s glance fixed steadily upon her, she feared 
that unintentionally she may have said too much. This 
thought occasioned her great trepidation. 

Far away upon the sea, it occurred to Harold that it 
was ungenerous in him to make no endeavor to remove 
this feeling ; but at the time the sight afforded him a 
18 * 


o 


210 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


gratification which he would not hastily renounce. In 
a minute, Bertha was less discomposed. 

“ You will go away, and will never return ?” she in- 
quired. 

“I must go away, and never can return,” he replied. 
“ Miss Berrill, when I came to this place, I did not con 
template to remain so long ; but fate changed my pur- 
pose, as the friendships which I formed moulded my 
inclinations. I centre all my hopes upon the thought 
that these friendships formed may end only with 
life.” 

“ And yet you desert your friends, never to return ?” 

“ Ah ! there are in life circumstances, undesired and 
oppressive, to which one must yield obedience, though 
reason and happiness rebel.” 

Bertha remained silent, not knowing what reply to 
make. 

“ You say that you are sorry,” continued Harold. 
“ It was a kind remark. Shall I say that I too am 
sorry? Were I to be thus frank with you, were I to 
say that I am loath to leave, would you disbelieve 
me ?” 

Bertha was too perturbed to make a reply, even had 
she been able to frame one. Harold now became con- 
scious that he had said too much, and quickly regained 
his self-possession. 

“ Miss Berrill, to-morrow I shall leave this place, 
and for the shores most distant. Ten thousand miles 
may separate me soon from the friends whom I esteem 
so highly ; yet I shall traverse not an inch that will 
not bring the nearer to my memory the images which 
I have learned to prize. May I hope that among those 
whom I leave, there is one who will retain a single 
thought of me ? You cannot soon forget one who 
will always think of you ?” 

These sentences were spoken with a calmness and 
respect that tended to restore Bertha’s equanimity. 

“ Believe me, I prize your friendship highly,” she 
said. “ How can you think that I can ever forget a 
friend who has been so kind and generous? Can any 
one be so thoughtless and insincere ?” 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


211 


“ No kinder token do I ask than that reproach. To 
me, our meeting is no merely temporary pleasure. 
When a man is constrained by circumstances, to which 
he has unconsciously contributed, to base his acts upon 
his disinclinations, to avoid hope and forsake hap- 
piness, truly his life presents no object of envy.” 

Harold had proceeded, almost unconsciously, not 
realizing that he had revealed his care to another, until 
her words apprised him of the fact. 

“ Oh, Mr. Warpole ! I wish it were possible to ease 
your troubles. Why think so much of them? No 
sorrow is enduring.” 

“ Why think of them ?” he said. “ You do not know 
what you ask. I cannot forget. I would not, if I 
could ; for, with them, I would consign my happiness 
to oblivion. Do not attempt to solve this strange 
enigma, but rest content with what you have done ; 
for you have inspired me, not with forgetfulness, but 
with content. Your sympathy converts trouble to re- 
pose, all care to comfort ; and, bearing with me an 
unfailing recollection of this moment, I can go through 
the world without a word of discontent. How un- 
kind, how selfish in me, to allow a shadow of the 
clouds overhanging me to appear to you! Ah! my 
gentle friend ! what though the coming years can 
bring me no joy, and the worlds to which I wander be 
barren deserts, it will all seem like a fleeting moment, 
and this hour will live as my eternity.” 

Bertha was silent. 

“ I leave this country, not an exile, for you bade me 
stay ; not a forsaken outcast, so long as I shall live 
within your memory. Still more let me hope. If 
ever, in the future, you need a friend to whom both life 
and death are welcome in your service, remember me. 
Will you promise ?” 

“ With all my heart,” said Bertha, “ and more. If 
ever I can render a return, be it never so slight, I 
shall not neglect an opportunity for which I long.” 

“ You have given more than it were possible for 
another to bestow. I have begged you to remember 
me. Let me request you now to forget me, and to re- 


212 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


tain your past happy views of life. Forget that you 
have ever known one whose future life must contradict 
your gentle views ; and live ever the hopeful, joyous, 
happy existence which fate has destined for you.” 

“ No, no ; before, when you bade me remember you, 
you counselled wisely, when counsel could not be re- 
quired. Now you do not advise half so well ; nor 
were it possible to do as you suggest. Is that then a 
happy existence, passed in oblivion of surroundings 
and in forgetfulness of the friends to whom one owes 
so much ? sharing in the joys of all and blind to the 
sorrows of any? Can one devote his life to such a 
worthless purpose ?” 

“I shall not again ask you to forget. You have 
armed me against aught that can befall man ; for what 
would he not suffer to obtain such consolation ! And 
shall I now renounce the sacred gift ? No, no ; think 
of me as you will, but forget me never.” 

There was a minute’s silence. 

“ I have tarried long,” he said, “ and must how to 
occasion ; for, if I wait until my inclinations prompt 
me to leave, I shall linger here forever. I go, not 
knowing how long I may be gone or if I ever can re- 
turn. Fate, that has decreed my absence, alone can 
contrive my return. I know not if it will be for 
months or years.” 

He arose from his seat ; and, as Bertha arose, he 
took her hand. 

“I dare not return ; I may never more see you.” 

Bertha made no reply. Her eyes were fixed upon 
the ground. 

“ I may never see you again,” he repeated ; “ but, 
though I shall be far from you, you never can be far 
from me. Though we meet never again, remember 
that, now and forever, you have and will have on earth 
no truer friend than Harold Warpole. Farewell.” 

“ Farewell,” came in a subdued voice from Bertha’s 
lips. 

He bowed over the two hands which he clasped so 
firmly. Slowly he relinquished them. 

“ Ever and forever, fare you well,” he said, and left her. 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


213 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

TJpon the evening of the day succeeding Harold Ber- 
wood’s departure, Bertha was seated in her boudoir, 
alone, save the companionship of her thoughts. These 
were by no means of the usual order. 

The events of the last day had made a deep im- 
pression upon her. To her startled senses now came 
the conviction that the man who had that day bade 
her farewell, had knowingly or inadvertently, revealed 
for her a deep, controlling love. The man, who had 
already won her gratitude and respect, had shown 
what he dared not tell, — that he loved her. 

When this sensational fact first dawned upon her 
mind, her varied emotions succeeded one another with 
marvellous rapidity. She could not divine the pre- 
dominance of feeling in the blending of amazement, 
sympathy, and alarm. 

That he really loved her had never occurred to her 
before that day ; and even then she would not have 
divined it merely from his words, unaided by the in- 
terpretation of her sympathetic heart. 

It was so sudden, so unexpected ! She wondered 
how he, a man who had seen so much of the world, 
could bestow his love upon her. She could not realize 
it. She reproached herself with the formation of an 
unwarranted and immodest impression, but was con- 
strained to exculpate herself from this charge. The 
truth was no longer concealable ; and, notwithstand- 
ing the turmoil in her breast, her undefined fears and 
apprehensions, this knowledge did not render her 
unhappy. 

But what had she done ? This was the next thought 
that occurred to her. With no right to love or be loved, 
save by the one who she felt would be forever a stran- 
ger to her esteem, she had encouraged the affection 
of a noble and honorable man. She would not admit 
the pleas of innocence and undesign, but imputed the 


214 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


situation to a culpable and unpardonable ignorance. 
All other thoughts and feelings yielded place to this 
disturbing conclusion ; and, for the first time in her 
life, she felt utterly miserable. It was in this frame of 
mind that Esther discovered her, despite her efforts to 
conceal her agitation. 

“ Why ! what is the matter, Bertha ?” inquired Esther. 

“ Oh, Esther !” she exclaimed. “ You do not know 
what I have done ; you do not know what a cruel, 
wicked creature I am.” 

“ Why, Bertha, what can you have done ?” 

“ Please do not ask me ; it cannot be told. But come 
away from here. Take me home. I have no right to 
be here. I ought never to have come.” 

“ Why, Bertha ? have I done anything ? Can I have 
wronged you ?” 

“ You have treated me better than I deserve to be 
treated by any one. I do not merit your kindness, 
Esther. I am a foolish girl.” 

“ Yes, you arc, for speaking as you do. But what 
can possibly have happened ?” 

Bertha, thus called upon for an explanation, could 
give none ; and, in her effort to extricate herself from 
her embarrassing position, regained composure. 

“ I cannot tell you, Esther. I dare not tell ; but I 
know now that it was wrong for me to come here, pre- 
tending to be some one who I am not and forgetting 
who I am.” 

This explanation, though by no means lucid in itself, 
was not lost on Esther, who shook her head slowly 
and knowingly. 

“ Why, Bertha, how could you help that ? Did you 
not know that Mr. Warpole liked you, — was, indeed, 
particularly attentive to you? Forgive me, dear, for 
guessing your secret, which you would not tell me, and 
forcing myself into your confidence. But have I ever 
withheld any secret from you? Is not my heart al- 
ways an open book to you? And yet you will not 
trust me.” 

“ Ho, Esther, — I do — I do deserve your reproaches ; 
but not for a lack of confidence in you. How can I tell 


BERTHA LAYCOTJRT. 


215 


you? what shall I say ? I cannot tliink. I know noth- 
ing but that I have been foolish.” 

“ Well, if you will not tell me, let me tell you that I 
know all ; all that you can tell, and more ; and I have 
known it for some time ; at least, I have thought so.” 

“ Do not, Esther ; please, do not. It is wrong ; it is 
very, very wrong.” 

“ I shall not say anything, but you are not in any 
way to blame ; you have done nothing. Did you fore- 
see this result ? I shall answer for you ; you could 
not have foreseen it. Then wherein consists your 
wrong ?” 

“ But I should have foreseen the result. I should 
not have practised such a gross deception.” 

“ Deception ? Is there anything particularly fasci- 
nating about the name which you assumed ? For my 
part, I prefer Bertha Laycourt to Lucy Berrill. Would 
any one have liked you any the less if you had come 
here as Bertha Laycourt ?” 

“ Ho, that is not wrong, but — I really do not know 
exactly what it is, but I know — I feel that I have done 
wrong.” 

“ Honsense, Bertha. You treat the matter too 
gravely. There is nothing strange about his loving 
you. It is but natural.” 

“ But he does not ; he did not say he did ; nor does 
he.” 

“ He did not say so ? Then I have come to a wrong 
conclusion. I thought I knew the source of your 
trouble, but I was mistaken.” 

“ But he does me the honor to like me much better 
than I thought he could,” said Bertha. 

11 Bertha, be frank with me, as I have always been 
with you. Believe me, I am not prompted by curiosity, 
but you have no right to keep your troubles to your- 
self; you have no right to keep my share from me. Is 
not the whole matter simply this, that he told you all, 
and that you felt bound to reject him ?” 

Bertha blushed in hopeless confusion before replying. 

“ Ho, indeed,” she said. “ You are entirely mistaken. 
I did not reject him : I have never had an opportunity, 


216 


BERTHA LAYCOTJRT. 


since I have been a woman, to reject any one : he never 
said what you think he said.” 

Esther was completely mystified. 

“ Then I fail, more than ever, to understand the 
nature of the wrong with which you chide yourself,” 
she said. “ How then did your innocent disguise affect 
him or any one ?” 

“ I — I do not know,” said Bertha. 

“ That is what I thought,” returned Esther, “ Hext 
time, before accusing a guilty being like yourself, wait 
until you have more convincing proof. Then what was 
it that made you unhappy ?” 

“ I do not know ; really I do not know,” was the re- 

ply- 

“ Then we will drop the subject ; and next time, you 
must not forget the lessons which we learned at school, 
and must allow a cause to precede an effect.” 

Thereupon, Esther imparted to her friend some plans 
projected by her lover and herself, and upon this sub- 
ject the two young girls conversed until one fell asleep. 
It was Esther. Bertha lay awake some time. Her 
conversation with Esther had evolved more clearly the 
fact that Harold, so far from making to her any pro- 
posal to which she durst not have listened, on the con- 
trary, had announced his intention to leave her forever. 
Eor the first time, it occurred to her that this conduct 
was very singular and inexplicable. He had expressed, 
in words which she vainly endeavored to misconstrue, 
his earnest desire to remain, and in the next breath 
had proclaimed his intention never to see her again. 
At the time, her own position had lent his design 
an appearance of naturalness ; but now she reflected 
that, not knowing her situation, his action could not 
have been based upon a knowledge of it, and must be 
accounted for upon some more reasonable hypothesis. 
She did not speculate long upon the probable cause. 
She recalled only his strange sorrow, his regret to 
leave, his yearning to stay; and a deep sympathy 
possessed her soul. 

At length, fatigued, she fell asleep. She dreamed 
that, while walking among the flower-beds in her gar- 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


217 


den, a beauteous cluster was transformed to thorns, by 
which she was encircled and from which she could not 
escape. Her grandfather appeared to her glad sight, 
with one wave of his hand removed the thorns, and 
restored every bud, with beauty thrice enhanced. It 
was with a feeling of delicious joy that she awoke ; 
and from her appearance no one divined that the fore- 
hours of the night had been passed by her in sleepless- 
ness. 

She accosted her friends with wonted cheerfulness, 
and, after the meal, renewed the subject of their return 
to Hew York. 

“Have you not had a pleasant time with us, my 
dear?” inquired Mrs. North wood. 

“ Oh, yes ; I never had a more pleasant time ; I 
never can have, but I must no longer maintain this 
deception. I must renounce this masquerade.” 

“ Well, can you not do so here ? Ho, I see. You do 
not want to meet the persons to whom you have been 
introduced as Miss Berrill, by another name. I do not 
blame you ; for, if there is an unfortunate position in 
which a young lady can be placed, it is to be made the 
object of a vulgar curiosity. But why do you wish to 
resume your name, or, as you call it, renounce your 
masquerade at this time? The purpose for which it 
was assumed has not yet been accomplished.” 

“Ho, it has not; but Mr. Berwood has disappointed 
his friends, and may remain absent for an indefinite 
period ; and meanwhile I must renounce my grand- 
father’s name. Ho, I ought never to have done it. 
Won’t you take me to Hew York ? I am sorry to 
trouble you so much. I ought not to do it, but I can- 
not — I cannot remain.” 

“ But what will you do at home ? Your grandfather 
has not yet returned.” 

“ He will be home soon. He promised not to stay 
long.” 

“ Certainly, we will take you back, if you are so 
anxious to leave us.” 

Mrs. Horthwood spoke in no resentful tone ; but her 
words, without design, conveyed a severe reproach to 
k 19 


218 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


Bertha’s mind. She advanced to Mrs. North wood, and 
took her hand. 

“Dear Mrs. North wood,” she said, “my words now 
do me great injustice; for, if I ever had a pleasant 
home, it was while in your house no less than any- 
where I have been ; and, if I am ungrateful, believe me, 
it is not towards you. I did not ask leave to go be- 
cause I wished to go. My going was designed to be 
my punishment, not my offence. I do not wish to 
leave and I shall not leave.” 

“ Not with my consent, my dear. You need not ex- 
plain your motive, because you are not whimsical ; and, 
if you really desired to leave us, you would have said 
so long ere this. So say no more about leaving, and I 
forgive you. Lucy Berrill has made many friends, who 
will miss her ; and she cannot leave them so abruptly. 
We intend to return to New York the latter portion of 
next week, if it please you.” 

Bertha said no more upon the subject of her return. 
From Esther, Mrs. Northwood learned more concerning 
the origin of Bertha’s request. Esther unfolded, to her 
mother, all that she knew, and more that she imagined, 
all of which was conveyed in the form of conviction, 
and the two ladies discussed Bertha’s affairs without 
restraint. 

“ I think it is a shame,” opined Esther, “ that Mr. 
Laycourt bound her while she was still so young to a 
man whom she has scarcely seen and who I know is 
not worthy to be seen by her.” 

“How do you know that?” inquired her mother, not 
doubting the truth of the assertion, but desirous to 
obtain the information upon which it was predicated. 

“ Why, I know it,” was Esther’s cunning reply. “ That 
is generally the case in such a state of affairs as this. 
I do not see how Mr. Laycourt could have done it.” 

“ I know that Mrs. Laycourt, had she lived, would 
not have consented to it,” said the elder lady. “ It is 
natural for a man, no matter how experienced he may 
be, to meddle in affairs which he would do much better 
to leave entirely to his wife. I have had the same 
trouble with your father. He never would listen to 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


219 


my advice until it was too late, else he would be dif- 
ferently conditioned.” 

“ Surely papa is rich enough. He has more than he 
can ever need.” 

“ Yes, he has enough money, but he has nothing 
compared to what he would have if he had listened to 
me. He is a good man, but I have had a trying ex- 
perience with him, and heaven only knows what would 
have been the result if I had not been patient. I could 
write a large book upon my experience. But that is 
past, and has nothing to do with Bertha. I must 
speak to her.” 

“It is too late. Mr. Warpole has gone; and, you 
remember, he said he might not return for years.” 

“Something must have happened,” declared Mrs. 
Uorthwood. “He did not appear to be very anxious 
to leave the day before he left. He surely could not 
have proposed to Bertha without permission.” 

“ Ho, he would not do that ; nor would she listen to 
him. I know he did not do that ; but why he left, I 
cannot understand ; because I am sure he loves her.” 

“Yes, as I think more about it, more clearly does it 
appear to me that he loves her ; but that only renders 
his departure more unexplainable. He must in some 
way have learned the truth. Some one must have told 
him that she is engaged.” 

“ But who could it have been ?” 

Both ladies reflected a minute, but could form no 
conclusion. 

Pursuant to her determination, Mrs. Horthwood ad- 
dressed Bertha upon the subject. 

“ Bertha,” she said, “ I do not want to interfere in 
your affairs, and I speak only by reason of my interest 
and love for you, and with a hope to benefit you. I 
think it was wrong in your grandfather to bind you to 
an engagement while you were so young.” 

Under the circumstances existing, it was an ex- 
tremely delicate subject to broach to Bertha; but 
Mrs. Horthwood knew nothing of the last interview 
between the young girl and Harold ; and, equally 
ignorant that the former had knowledge of the state 


220 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


of her lover’s feelings, deemed herself privileged to 
speak. Had she advanced her opinion in different 
language, she might have involved Bertha in great 
perplexity ; but her words evoked a characteristic re- 
sponse. 

“Ho, no, grandfather can do no wrong; he never 
has done wrong; really, he never has,” said Bertha, 
earnestly. 

“I could not contradict, even if it were not unjust 
and unkind to do so,” replied Mrs. Northwood. “ But, 
you know, the best and wisest are liable to err ; and it 
does seem to me that it would be much better to let 
you choose for yourself than to force you to accept 
some one already selected by him.” 

This last remark was made for the purpose of self- 
exculpation rather than as an insistence. 

“ Grandfather does not force me ; he has often told 
me that I can do as I please ; and I cannot please my- 
self better than by pleasing him. He will not let me 
do anything to my disadvantage.” 

Mrs. Northwood spoke no more upon the subject ; 
and it remained for an occasion in the near future to 
put the young girl’s confidence and affection to a pain- 
ful test. 

Bertha, in company with her friends, continued to 
frequent the society into which she had been intro- 
duced. But, though she met nearly all of her friends, 
and upon occasions in themselves no less enjoyable 
than those which had rendered her delight in the past, 
at times she missed some one or something. For a 
time, this impression was very vague, but it soon ap- 
peared to her in a more definite shape. Harold’s many 
kind attentions, the naturalness of her appreciation 
and his last revelation, which filled her soul at times 
with sadness, accelerated the approach of truth, from 
which she could not always shrink; and she became 
fully conscious that she missed his presence and con- 
versation. This thought brought back the recollection 
that he was far away, — was already upon the sea, and 
she would see him nevermore. 

She repaired daily to the arbor in which their last 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


221 


conversation had occurred. She took with her a book, 
— the same book of poems which had on that memora- 
ble day been her companion, — but did not devote the 
entire time to reading. Her thoughts were not idle ; 
and when she read, there recurred to her the explana- 
tions rendered by Harold. She recalled his graphic 
descriptions of the places of which she read, her efforts 
to follow his imaginative flights and comprehend his 
thoughts. It was but reasonable that she must admire 
one whom she supposed thus endowed. But did she 
love him ? That was a question which she would not 
ask herself. 

She felt now that he loved her, and the knowledge 
made her alternately happy and sad. She did not ex- 
pect his return, nor did she desire it. For, at a dis- 
tance, his love appeared to be nothing more than a 
return of her own deep and pure friendship, while now 
she felt that, with her present ties, she would have no 
right to meet him. Could she have procured her 
release by a single word, she would not have uttered 
it. But that did not occur to her in connection with 
her thoughts of Harold Warpole. 

How she commenced wondering how she had con- 
ducted herself in her last interview with Harold ; 
whether there had been in her words or manner any 
thing revealing aught else than she had wished to 
disclose ; and these thoughts gave birth to serious ap- 
prehensions. 

As time passed, this subject claimed more and more 
of her thoughts, until it acquired a hold that precluded 
its banishment. The period just passed assumed the 
form of a distinct epoch of her life, — a time whose 
sweet impressions were ever to be recalled, never to be 
eradicated. It was not a vain promise, improbable of 
fulfilment, that had been extorted by Harold ; and he 
needed no longer to have feared that he would ever be 
entirely forgotten. 

Bapidly as he had grown in her respect and esteem 
during his presence, that progress was slow compared 
to his advance after his absence. It is well to leave 
immediately after creating a good impression. She 
19 * 


222 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


tried to recall his words at that well-remembered in- 
terview, and was puzzled now in attempting to divine 
a cause for his departure. 

The thought that Harold Warpole would ever be to 
her anything more than a friend did not for a moment 
enter her mind. His words alone would have excluded 
such an idea ; but no circumstances contrivable by 
possibility could have removed it further from her 
mind than did her own position. She knew that her 
grandfather, however indulgent, earnestly desired her 
marriage with Harold Berwood ; and the fact that he 
had given her perfect freedom to act in the matter 
deprived her of that freedom. His effort to remove 
her constraint only strengthened her inclination to 
observe his wishes. A request is, to an enlightened 
mind, more effective than a command. 

Being now firmly of opinion that she could never 
love Harold Berwood, it became incumbent upon her 
to form a strong resolution, by which she could be 
guided ; and, as a part of this resolve, she determined 
to think less of Harold Warpole. 

As stated, she did not acknowledge that she loved 
him. Then why she thought it necessary to forget 
him, while not forgetting others whom she had less 
reason to remember, would require an explanation ex- 
ceptionally lucid to bo satisfactory. This she did not 
give, and allowed the matter to remain in that unsatis- 
factory condition. Often did she find it necessary to 
recall her resolution. Strange, that, formed for such 
important reasons, it could be remembered only with 
difficulty. 

In the columns of a newspaper, she noticed the 
landing of vessels at foreign ports, and the arrival of 
Harold Warpole in Europe. To her, who had never 
crossed the ocean, the distance did not appear to be 
one which could be soon traversed. She calculated by 
distance rather than by time, and the ocean was ap- 
parently an untraversable barrier. She now believed 
that they would never meet again. Being thus desir- 
ous to forget him, she wished to return to her home, 
to enter once more upon a life to form a sequel to the 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


223 


past spent there by her. She longed to see her grand- 
parent, whom she missed every day of their separation. 
Letters came from him frequently, and a large portion 
of her time was consumed in correspondence with him. 
She informed him of all interesting events that came 
under her observation, or with which she was con- 
nected, and recited the names of her friends met at 

H . Harold War pole was mentioned among the 

rest, no more and no less ; yet she was not conscious 
of concealment. 

Through her friends, she learned that Harold Ber- 
wood had written his father a letter containing the in- 
formation that unusual circumstances had rendered his 
absence for a time desirable, and he had no inten- 
tion to return that season ; that he would not defer 
his return to unreasonable limits, and would soon in- 
dicate a certain date. 

Had this information reached her at the commence- 
ment of her visit at H , she would have been bit- 

terly disappointed ; but now, though she regarded him 
to be a man whom she would make strenuous efforts 
to like, no feeling was further from her than regret oc- 
casioned by his prolonged absence. Hot that his ab- 
sence evinced neglect on his part ; his travels were 
designed for his improvement, and Mr. Berwood’s de- 
sire to see him was more than counterpoised by his 
wish that his son acquire a knowledge of the world. 
All this was known to Bertha, and conduct which 
might otherwise have appeared neglectful was regarded 
in its true light by her. 

How she had no longer a desire to meet Harold Ber- 
wood under an assumed name or impersonation. If 
meet him she must, she preferred to do so under 
natural and commonplace circumstances. All romance 
connected with her former situation had been severed 
by recent developments. 

After the conversation detailed, Mrs. Horthwood did 
not deem it incumbent upon her to advert again to the 
subject ; but Esther, Bertha’s confidential friend, who 
withheld no secret from her and expected a reciprocal 
confidence, spoke with her upon the matter. 


224 


BERTHA LAYCOTJRT. 


“ Bertha,” she said, “ do you really intend to marry 
Mr. Berwood ?” 

“ Certainly,” said Bertha, “ that was decided upon 
years ago.” 

“ But it is not too late now to reconsider a matter 
of so much importance,” returned Esther. “ You need 
not pawn your happiness to redeem an idle pledge, 
which ought never to have been made. How can j^ou 
be happy as the wife of a man whom you do not love?” 

“ He surely will release me if he does not like me,” 
said Bertha. “ I would expect him to do that, if he is 
a gentleman ; and, if he is not, grandfather would not 
permit the marriage even if 1 were willing.” 

“Well, but you do not love him.” 

“ I do like him. I have always liked him, and he 
has never done anything to forfeit my esteem. Yes, 
I do like him now ; and why, if he is good and noble, 
as some men are, may I not learn to esteem him very 
highly?” 

“ You may,” said Esther, “ but love is not subject to 
the will, and least of all is it with you. Tell me truly, 
Bertha, do you think that you can be happy with 
him ?” 

Bertha was silent a time before replying. 

“ I shall try very hard to make him happy,” she 
said. “ True, Esther,” she added, more thoughtfully, 
“ I do not think I love him as I should. I have tried 
to think that I do, but I do not ; I know I do not. 
Indeed it is not my fault ; I cannot. I cannot tell you 
why; I do not know. Oh, Esther! what shall I do ?” 

It was her first appeal, coming with spontaneous 
force from the depths of her heart. Esther, prone to 
verify her own suspicion, could not misapprehend the 
source of this plaintive cry ; and, when thus appealed 
to, could do no more than fold her arms about her 
friend and maintain silence. 

Some little time they sat thus ; then Esther spoke. 

“ Is it then as I believed ?” she said. “ You are not 
then indifferent to the man who loves you ?” 

Bertha raised her head quickly. She dropped Es- 
ther’s hands, and, rising, walked away. Standing 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 225 

before her friend, with beating heart and flushed face, 
she spoke : 

“ No, no, do not think so ; do not speak like that to 
me. You must not think so badly of me ; you ought 
never to have said that. You know I am promised in 
marriage. Forgive me; I do not reproach you. I 
only — oh, Esther ! I did not know that you could be 
so cruel, so unkind. Oh ! you are unjust, cruel, cruel.” 

And Bertha, resting her face upon the sofa, wept 
freely. Esther approached, and gently took her hands. 

“ You foolish girl,” she said. “ How could you think 
that I intended to wound you? Come, cease weeping 
and forgive me. I never, never will otfend you again.” 

It required some minutes to restore Bertha’s tran- 
quillity. Soon she looked up, and laid her hands 
caressingly upon her friend. 

“I am foolish, Esther,” she said. “Let us forget 
this. I had no cause to be vexed. I was not vexed. 
I ought not to have spoken as I did ; but you are kind 
and generous, and you will forgive me; will you not?” 

The two friends were soon reconciled. 


CHAPTER XXYIII. 

After returning to the city, Bertha continued to re- 
main with Mrs. Northwood. Her relative had not yet 
returned, but had indicated a time but three days 
subsequent to the date of her own return. 

The day of her arrival, compliant with her eager 
desire, she was driven to her home, which she regarded 
with renewed delight. The premises had not been 
neglected ; and, though her return was not expected, 
everything was in readiness. Her surroundings con- 
stantly reminded her of her grandfather, and until his 
return she would not remain. Therefore, after receiv- 
ing a most cordial and respectful welcome from the 
servants, she returned to her temporary home. 

Two days later, the meeting anticipated by Bertha 

P 


226 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


occurred. Seated with her grandfather that evening, 
she heard a full narration of his experiences. Her 
own visit, she was constrained to describe with more 
particularity. She was charmed with descriptions of 
what he had seen, and expressed a desire to travel 
through the country, a wish which he promised to 
gratify. 

The next day, things resumed their old aspect. She 
was again in her old home, and under the care of the 
same old friend. The interval had wrought an addi- 
tion rather than a change, and her brief experience 
while away was not to be forgotten. 

But not sad nor oppressive were her thoughts. The 
events which had so recently transpired had left no 
enduring impression other than a feeling of boundless 
hope and sweet content. Her past life had not been 
one to render disappointment an expectable guest; 
hence she did not now fear its intrusion. In the pres- 
ence of her grandfather, she felt wholly reassured, and 
she was confident that all would be well, in accordance 
with the principles by which her destiny was appar- 
ently governed. 

Upon a pleasant summer’s day, she entered her car- 
riage, to visit graves which, from her early childhood, 
had not been neglected by her. Besides her annual 
visits, she went frequently to the cemetery, which she 
reached by a lengthy and rapid drive. . 

Having arrived and left the coachman within hail- 
ing distance, she wended her way to a splendid mauso- 
leum, surrounded by beds of delicate flowers and 
enclosed by an iron railing. Upon a costly stone were 
inscribed the words “ Constance Laycourt.” Beside it 
was another stone, bearing the inscription “ Louis 
Laycourt;” and at a short distance another, upon 
which was the name “ Hannah Laycourt.” 

As Bertha entered the little gate, from the other 
side of the first monument appeared a man, who 
walked onward a short distance, with his eyes cast 
towards the ground, when suddenly, looking up, he 
detected her presence. 

Standing perfectly motionless for the moment, his 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


227 


eyes fixed steadily upon her, his face, first crimson, 
turned d'eathly pale. Involuntarily he took one back- 
ward step, then, making a circuit to maintain his dis- 
tance from her, he raised his hat with the utmost 
respect, bowed down before her, and turned away. 

Only for a minute did he stand thus before her; but 
his manner, if not his appearance, was enough to im- 
press her with an abiding recollection of him. 

He was a middle-aged man, with hair almost entirely 
gray, and a grave face, which, at the moment that she 
first beheld him, bore an expression of unmistakable 
sorrow, revealed to her by her own instinct rather 
than by observation. A single glance sufficed to con- 
vince any one that he was unmistakably a gentle- 
man. 

Eiveted to the spot, she stood, her eyes intently fixed 
upon the stranger, who would fain have withdrawn 
after his retreat. Having passed through the gate, he 
turned once more, and saw her start forward as though 
about to address him. He paused, with his hat in his 
hand; and now before her stood a gentleman, grave 
and composed, — far more composed than was the 
young girl whom he confronted, and who made several 
vain attempts to speak. 

“ I regret to have startled you, and earnestly hope 
you will forgive my intrusion,” he said, with defer- 
ence. 

“ You do not intrude, sir,” replied Bertha. “ It is I 
who am guilty; but do not let my presence disturb 
you. Will you — will you not remain ?” 

The stranger hesitated ; then, approaching slowly, 
stood before her, eying her all the while. 

“As you have already manifested your readiness to 
forgive an unknown trespasser, will you answer his 
presumptuous query, relying upon his word, that it is 
not curiosity which prompts it ? Tell me, I beg of you, 
are you Miss Bertha Laycourt?” 

Greatly surprised at the manner in which he pro- 
pounded this query, she made no verbal response, but 
bowed assent. 

Whatever effect was produced by her reply could 


228 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


not be detected from his countenance, which was quite 
impassive. His manner was now easy and collected, 
and he evinced no immediate intention to leave. 

“ It were more becoming in me, an intruder here, 
to reveal my own identity than to presume upon your 
goodness ; but why burden you with a knowledge, 
which, believe me, would make no one the wiser ?” 

His melancholy words were in keeping with his 
grave appearance ; and Bertha’s heart spoke more than 
her voice would utter. 

“ Oh, sir !” she said, “ pray tell me nothing which you 
would withhold ; but do not think that I — that anyone 
would be indifferent to the knowledge, as you believe.” 

The stranger was visibly affected. 

“ Ah ! it is meet that I, who have travelled through- 
out the world without one of the tender ties which 
bind man to this earth, receive your sympathy. Where- 
fore do you bestow it ? Have you ever suffered a 
single pang of sorrow, that you so readily can divine 
another’s misery ?” 

“ Forgive me, sir. I did not intend to obtrude.” 

“ Obtrude ? One word of real sympathy from a gen- 
tle heart is a sacred boon ; and to reveal one’s misfor- 
tunes to obtain that comfort is a weakness which the 
brave will readily forgive. My child — your pardon, 
madam — you do not know — and it is well you do not — 
how weak are even the strong ; but ah ! sweet recollec- 
tion ! how strong even the weak can be. You who have 
been so kind, grant me another favor. You see in me 
a wanderer, alone and miserable, one who, when hap- 
piness' forsook his home, followed it — its desertion, not 
its footsteps. No, do not allow the story of my life to 
affect you. It all is past ; it is buried deep, deep beneath 
the sod ; and, if that grave is not deep enough to con- 
tain all sorrow, in my bosom it finds an eternal resting- 
place.” 

He paused. His head was bowed. His eyes were 
directed towards the grave of her mother. With 
clasped hands, Bertha stood, spellbound and mute. 

“ Is it then strange that one forsaken by all but death 
turns to the doors of that one hospitable friend? 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


229 


Therefore, I transgressed and am now here to wound 
your tender heart. Will you give me your hand ?” 

Bertha extended both her hands, which the stranger 
took and pressed respectfully j then he released them. 

“ I said that I would make of you one more request, 
which I beg you will grant. I long to hear the life of 
one whom care and trouble have not dared oppress. 
Will you not tell me about yourself, your own past ?” 

“ Cheerfully, sir, but I have little to relate. I never — 
alas ! saw my parents. They left me with some friends, 
kind and generous ; then my grandparents took me to 
live with them, a life of happiness.” 

“ How old were you when you first went to live with 
your grandparents?” 

“ Five or six years,” said Bertha. 

The stranger listened to this brief recital with the 
most intense interest and thoughtfulness. Several 
times, he made motions indicative of a purpose to ask 
a certain question which bore upon his mind, but re- 
frained. At length he spoke. 

“ The most miserable existence is not without com- 
fort,” he said. “No cloud, however black, can screen 
forever a ray of sunlight. Madam, you have been most 
indulgent and considerate, and I thank you. May you 
be ever, ever happy. Adieu.” 

With a deep bow, he left her. For some time, Ber- 
tha gazed after him and encountered his glance, di- 
rected towards her. Soon he turned into another lane 
and was beyond her sight. 

For some minutes, Bertha stood there ; then, picking 
up the flowers which she had deposited upon the 
ground, she approached the tomb of her relatives. 
Yery reverent was her approach ; and, bending for- 
ward, she kissed the names inscribed upon the stones. 
Her lips moved not of their own volition, but at the 
tender bidding of her heart, which sought to impart 
life to that cold home. She knelt upon the hallowed 
spot, and planted there a bed of flowers, the symbols 
of her love and sorrow. This done, to give her modest 
garden growth, she moistened it with tears. 

Had the cold stones a heart, with which the fibres of 
20 


230 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


her own were interwoven ? It so appeared to her, who 
clasped them all so ardently as she laid her head upon 
them, and whispered to them words of undying love. 

^ ^ vj/ jJ/ vj/ vj/ 

Though the stranger had not requested Bertha to 
observe secrecy concerning her meeting with him, she 
implied this request from the nature of his subject, and 
did not mention the strange adventure even to her 
grandfather. Several times she felt impelled to speak, 
to obtain such views as Mr. Laycourt would be enabled 
to impart in the matter, but was always restrained by 
this implication. 

Yet the occurrence was for some time a subject pre- 
dominant in her thoughts. She wondered how he had 
learned her name ; for he was a stranger in these parts 
and had presumably never seen her before. 

The great agitation betrayed by him at first sight of 
her, however, rendered all the more striking by the 
perfect self-possession which speedily asserted itself, 
justified the supposition that he had seen her before. 
Between these two theories, her conclusions conflicted. 
But either theory did not explain his conduct satisfac- 
torily ; for, not having seen her before, how could he 
have been thus startled at the sight ? and, upon the 
affirmative hypothesis, what was there in her reappear- 
ance to him to produce astonishment or dismay ? 

In this connection, she recalled the fact that he had 
not given his name. This circumstance was not of 
itself very important in determining the problem. The 
place at which she had encountered him, his knowledge 
of her name, and his strange emotions, added to his 
reticence, combined to give the event an appearance of 
singularity. Still less all this than did his own grave 
appearance and sad words tend to keep him before her 
eyes for a flattering period of time. 

So much for fact and reason. But, above all this, 
there was in her heart a feeling, vague and undefinable, 
which she could neither overcome nor explain. Per- 
haps it was nothing more than sympathy, evoked by 
his pensiveness. It was the first time she had met a 
human being whos’e heart was freighted with a sorrow 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


231 


overburdening and apparently permanent; and his 
earnestness betokened that it was of no common order. 

Connecting his words with probability, and evolving 
therefrom an inference seemingly rational, she con- 
cluded that, among the graves by which he had been 
surrounded, were those of friends who in their lifetime 
had been no less near him. 

From this subject, her thoughts were partially di- 
verted by another which claimed her attention. It 
came to her knowledge that Myrtle Stratton, who had 
been married but little longer than a year and by an 
unfortunate accident had soon after her marriage been 
left a widow, was now in New York, at the home of 
an aunt. Bertha lost no time in visiting the afflicted 
woman ; but all the comfort which tenderness and trust 
could bestow could not restore a ray of hope to illumi- 
nate her future path. Her husband had not treated 
her with the kindness which she had deserved ; he had 
often uttered words and committed acts shocking to 
his refined wife ; but she had loved him devotedly, and 
he had taken with him her desire to live. 

Disposed by nature to quietness, she now spoke very 
little ; and when she spoke, it was not upon the subject 
of her bereavement. She made no complaint ; and, at 
this time, nearly two years after her marriage and 
more than a year after her husband’s death, she main- 
tained a silence almost absolute upon the sorrowful 
subject. 

From the date of their marriage, she had lived with 
him in the far West, in a city in which her parents 
had resided. After his death, she returned to the home 
of her parents, who cared for her with natural solici- 
tude, but were pained to perceive the delicate girl grow 
paler and more listless week by week. The family 
physician recommended travel, not so much for change 
of air as for change of scenery, on the principle that 
objects of interest cannot fail to beget interest. Upon 
this recommendation, Mr. Stratton acted, and took 
her East, resting finally at New York, where he de- 
signed to leave her under the care of his sister, Mrs. 
Yampage. He attempted, by various means and de- 


232 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


vices, to arouse her interest in scenery and events ; 
but perceived that the meagre success with which he 
met was attributable solely to a forced endeavor on her 
part. Finding it necessary to return, he left her with 
her aunt, who faithfully redeemed her promise to fur- 
ther his efforts. This lady rejoiced at the coming of 
Bertha, who, having been Myrtle’s classmate and friend, 
could, perhaps, administer some comfort, or, at least, 
create a diversion ; and this belief was confirmed by 
the meeting of the two friends. For once since her ar- 
rival, Myrtle’s cheeks wore a slight flush, and her eyes 
betrayed interest, as she embraced the friend whose 
service she had not forgotten. For the first time in 
that interval, her silence yielded to a free burst of 
tears and sobs. Then, seating herself beside Bertha, 
she recounted her misfortune. She addressed a willing 
and sympathetic listener, and did not pause until the 
whole mournful truth was told. 

This revelation was a great relief to Myrtle, as may 
readily be imagined ; and Mrs. Vampage was greatly 
pleased. When, therefore, Bertha requested permis- 
sion to take Myrtle home with her, if she would go, 
the elder lady offered no opposition. As for Myrtle 
herself, she appeared to manifest an utter unconcern 
as to what was done with her, consenting only so as 
not to appear ungracious and unappreciative. Her 
words and action in response to this invitation were 
susceptible of a variety of constructions ; but Bertha 
chose to construe them as an assent; and, having made 
all prearrangements requisite, she called next day with 
the family carriage and conveyed Myrtle to her home. 

For a time, Myrtle made an endeavor to manifest in 
her surroundings an interest which she did not feel ; 
but soon relapsed into silent despair. In this state of 
mind, Bertha found her one day in her apartment. 
At sight of Bertha, the young widow forced to her aid 
a smile, unutterably sad though it was. 

“ My poor Myrtle,” said Bertha, “ why do you let a 
sorrow which no one can avoid darken your life for- 
ever? Can you not live for others, for yourself, for 
us ?” 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


233 


“Indeed, I will try to do all you wish,” said the 
widow. 

Bertha, happy in the thought that the intentions of 
her friend had undergone a desirable change, devoted 
her time and energy to the end that this change would 
be permanent. Her recent journey and its results, her 
engagement, her meeting with the stranger in the cem- 
etery and all other subjects were forgotten for the time 
being, her immediate task claiming her entire atten- 
tion. 

Mr. Laycourt made earnest endeavors to alleviate 
the widow’s sufferings. Ho means of diversion was 
neglected by him. Bertha’s triumph appeared to be 
almost complete when she prevailed upon her guest to 
accompany her and her grandparent to the theatre. 
Myrtle evinced a gentle willingness to comply with all 
their wishes ; and Bertha was elated with her success. 

When, therefore, upon a subsequent evening, she 
promised to attend an operatic performance, and 
Bertha, at the appointed hour, found her entirely 
unprepared, she was as much surprised as pained. 

“Why, Myrtle, you promised to go with us,” she 
said. 

Slowly Myrtle raised her head. 

“Excuse me, Bertha. I cannot go. Wherefore? 
with what object ? What is all this to me ?” 

The last words were uttered in a voice of utter 
despair. 

Bertha was too deeply pained to utter a single word. 
She seated herself beside the widow, who was the first 
to speak. 

“ Bertha, you have been my friend, tender and true, 
and I am grateful. Willingly would I yield for you 
my life ; but I have none to give. You cannot, cannot 
give me back my husband ; yet he is not half so dead 
as is my happiness. I have tried, believe me, I have 
tried hard to think that my term of life has not yet 
expired ; but you do not know how desolate is one 
whose life is but a calendar of passing years. Oh ! 
that I were but older, — old. Think of the hopeless 
years whose hours I may yet have to count before I 
20 * 


234 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


join my Arthur. Oh, Bertha ! as you are my dearest 
friend, do not, by giving me new life, prolong my sor- 
row.” 

“Myrtle, you must not speak thus. Though you 
cannot forget the past, is there naught else than sor- 
row that you can remember? Why recall but the 
sorrowful end, and forget the happy days — the sweetest 
memories of life — that preceded it ?” 

“ Oh, Bertha, dearest, do not recall them now to me. 
They are past, past, forever past and buried.” 

“ No, Myrtle, I wquld rather see you weep, as you 
do now, than sit here as you did, so quiet and pensive, 
as if the life you scarcely have commenced were already 
closed. Have you alone borne great affliction ? Why, 
Myrtle, this incessant grief is blasphemy ; your loss is 
wrought by the same kind Hand which gave you life 
and former joy. Think you He who remembers all, 
the happy and the sorrowful, has forgotten you? 
Your loss is all too deep, too sacred to be met with 
a vain grief, and can be regarded but with a holy awe.” 

“ Continue, Bertha, if you would please me.” 

“You harp constantly upon the past,” continued 
Bertha; “then look back calmly to the past as it tran- 
spired. Is it right to merge in one sad event, the 
happy days of infancy and childhood, our school-days, 
your meeting with your husband, the days — the min- 
utes passed under his care and protection, — to feel how 
tenderly you loved each other, and yet regret the past, 
because that happiness did not endure forever? Think 
of it, Myrtle ; and reflect if, even though you could, 
you would obliterate the past, the sweet and generous 
past, because of one sad event, which should invest it 
with an endless sanctity. Does not incessant grief but 
degrade your soul? Cast it forth, Myrtle, and live 
on, in peace and content, your pure and holy exist- 
ence.” 

These words and sentiments were not without effect 
upon Myrtle. Naturally, they carried with them more 
import than they would have conveyed had they been 
uttered by one given to moralizing or speaking alone 
from reason, unassisted by the heart. As it was, the 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


235 


first moment that Myrtle entered the presence of her 
host that evening, in an ocean of disconsolateness he 
sighted a small isle of hope. 

Once more she accompanied them to places visited 
for her entertainment ; and apparently compliance with 
their wishes now entailed less effort. She did this not 
only to please her friends, but to discover if there were 
really in this world anything upon which she could 
base a hope. From , those whom she met, she received 
much attention, which, being a wealthy, as well as hand- 
some and accomplished, young widow, she could reason- 
ably have expected; but, so far as practicable, she 
avoided conspicuity. 

One day, she received a letter from her father, who 
announced his intention to be in New York during the 
week then current, and to take his daughter home 
with him, if she would go. The contents of this letter 
were made known to Bertha by her friend, together 
with her purpose to return with her father. Bertha 
sought earnestly to dissuade her ; but, though Myrtle 
was wont to defer to the wishes of her friend, in this 
instance she maintained a firm determination, and 
Bertha was too good a hostess to carry her insistences 
beyond proper limits. 

The benefits derived from this visit by Myrtle, 
though not perceptible to the friends with whom she 
associated daily, were recognized by her father with 
much gratification. Cheerfulness was a condition 
which he had not expected to find ; and the manifes- 
tation of even the slightest interest in her surround- 
ings marked a vast improvement in her spirits. Her 
air, though languid still, was less painfully striking ; 
and her acts seemed now to be inspired by life and 
were no longer merely the result of acquired habits. 

“ If I had known this,” said Mr. Stratton, after 
having expressed his gratitude to his host, “ I would 
not have called for her so soon ; but the truth is, her 
mother is ill, and only because of worriment for her. 
But, thanks to you, I think that Myrtle will now per- 
mit us to do more towards restoring her to the world 
and the world to her. I never before saw a young 


236 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


woman so deeply attached to her husband as she evi- 
dently was.” 

“ I did but once,” said Mr. Laycourt, and his mind 
reverted to the well-remembered cottage. “ I would 
advise you to make her mingle in society and visit 
places of entertainment. By that means, her thoughts 
and feelings will be enlisted in other subjects, which 
gradually must assume an appropriate prominence.” 

Myrtle’s preparations were few; and soon she was 
ready for departure. Mr. Laycourt and Bertha ac- 
companied them to the depot. Bertha had already 
obtained from her friend a promise to write her letters 
of at least four pages, at frequent intervals. Such 
letters, thought Bertha, would necessarily require the 
bestowal of attention upon subjects other than the 
grief which preyed so heavily upon her friend’s mind. 

“Bertha,” said the latter, “you have never known 
real sorrow ; it is my most fervent wish that you never 
may. But, should you ever, I can hope for nothing 
better than that you meet a friend such as you have 
been to me.” 

Having bade their friends farewell, the visitors 
started on their journey. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

Up to within a month of this time, Bertha had 
never known any great trouble ; and her ideas con- 
cerning it would, if expressed, have been found to be 
very vague and uncertain. How, at a time that ap- 
peared to extend to her the brightest promise of a 
blissful existence, her troubles were destined to begin. 

Believing that her own career did not vary from the 
general experience of mankind, she was shocked and 
deeply pained at the revelations recently made to her 
in rapid succession. Harold Warpole, the stranger, 
Myrtle, — each had a tale of woe to tell or leave un- 
told. Yet, with a heart oppressed with the cares of 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 237 

others, she did not suspect the trouble that fate had 
until then reserved for her. 

After her meeting with the stranger, she often con- 
ceived the desire to visit again the spot in which their 
conversation had taken place. Connected with this 
object, was the thought that perhaps she would meet 
him again, — an event earnestly desired by her for 
reasons that she could not have defined. Being one 
day upon a drive, she bade the coachman convey her 
to the cemetery ; and thither she was taken. 

Not until this time did the improbability of a meet- 
ing with the stranger occur to her. Now she remem- 
bered that accident alone had brought him to the place 
where they had met. As she left her carriage and 
walked up the lane, her expectation to see him was 
discarded. She walked on slowly and noiselessly ; and, 
having arrived nearly at the gate through which she 
intended to enter, there came to her ears a voice which 
caused her to stop suddenly, and to her startled senses 
came the words : 

“ Adieu, my faithful Constance.” 

Bertha made one forward step. Before the tomb of 
her mother, the stranger was kneeling. Her move- 
ment startled him. Quickly he arose, and made a 
desperate attempt to regain his self-possession. With 
clasped hands and imploring face, she addressed him. 

“ Tell me, I beseech you, tell me who you are,” she 
prayed. 

The man was silent ; his face betrayed an uncontrol- 
lable agitation. 

“Won’t you tell me?” begged Bertha. “In the 
name of heaven, tell me who you are.” 

Still he uttered no word. 

“ Tell me who you are,” repeated Bertha ; and, as 
she spoke, pointed impressively to the grave of her 
mother. 

His lips moved. The stong man fairly trembled un- 
der his great emotions. 

“ Bertha, you are my own, my darling, my daugh- 
ter 1” he cried, and, springing forward, he caught the 
unconscious girl in his arms. 


238 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


Carrying her to a little brook which flowed close by, 
he bathed her cold face with water. Soon she opened 
her eyes, and found herself seated upon a bench, at the 
side of the gentleman, upon whose shoulder her head 
was resting. Seeing her again conscious, he relin- 
quished his hold and allowed her to draw back her 
head, while she gazed into his face with wonder and 
delight. 

Upon his countenance, usually so grave, there was 
visible now the evidence of a paternal interest and 
affection, as he continued to gaze in silence upon her, 
waiting for her to speak. She did not for a moment 
take her eyes from his features. Often had she seen 
his portrait ; and, though it had been taken many.years 
before, she had now no difficulty to recognize him. 
She made several attempts to speak, but could not; 
she took his hand and covered it with kisses. 

“Oh, papa!” she said. “My dear, dear papa! I 
thought — I feared that ” 

“ I know, my darling, but I am here, and with you.” 

“ Oh, papa ! you do not know — I cannot tell you — 
how happy I am ; for you — you are with me, never to 
leave me again. I know you will not, for we will be so 
happy.” 

Louis Laycourt arose. Extending his arms, he 
clasped the agitated girl to his breast, and for a mo- 
ment thus he held her. 

“ My own daughter, you are mine, mine, my own 
forever,” he said. 

He took her hand and turned. A half-dozen steps 
brought them to the tomb. Before the grave, they 
knelt and bowed their heads. 

Kneeling before the grave of his wife and holding 
his daughter’s hand, his head in contact with his breast, 
he did not disturb the quiet pervading. Before the 
grave of her mother, at her father’s side, the young 
girl remained, bowed and mute. 

For a full minute, they remained thus. Then, calm 
and majestic, he turned to her, and led her to a little 
bench, upon which they seated themselves. He pointed 
to the tomb on which was inscribed his own name. 


BER THA LA YCO UR T. 239 

“ And yet I am here,” he said. “ Does it not seem 
strange to you ?” 

“It all seems so strange, so wonderful!” said Bertha. 
“ Is it only a delightful dream, or are you really with 
me, papa ?” 

“ With you I have been, in heart and soul, so long as 
you have life. At another time, I shall tell you how 
we came to be parted, Bertha ; to-day I must exclude 
from my thoughts all images save you and her. 
Through your resemblance to your mother you ap- 
peared to me, when first we met here, as a vision of past 
happiness. Is it strange that I was not then myself? 
My heart longed for the recognition for which my lips 
did not then ask.” 

Up to this time, Bertha had yielded so entirely to 
the influence of her great joy as to screen from her 
memory a recollection of that former strange meeting. 
Even now it begot scarcely a thought. She was so 
supremely happy in the present as to ignore the past 
and future. 

“ It is enough that you are with me. How happy 
grandfather will be to see you ! You never, never will 
leave us again ?” 

“ Would I willingly leave one for whose presence I 
have not for a moment ceased to long, and in whose 
absence all else that is to me is nothing ? Come, my 
daughter; tell me about yourself; of you it is I wish 
to hear ; tell me all about yourself, your every day 
that you remember.” 

But Bertha still continued to regard him with min- 
gled wonder and delight. 

“ You marvel that I still live ?” he said. “ The story 
is very simple. I had engaged passage upon a ship, 
which, a day later, foundered off the coast of India. 
A storm that suddenly arose had prevented me from 
reaching the ship in time. Being listed among the 
passengers and not rescued, I was numbered among 
the dead.” 

“ And you did not let us know ? Oh, papa !” 

“ I deserve your reproach, my darling ; but some 
time I will explain all more fully to you. I intended 


240 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


to return to you as soon as fate would permit me ; but 
alas ! my wishes were not always coupled with fulfil- 
ment. You shall know all ; tell me now about your- 
self. You see me now for the first time since your 
infancy. You would not even know that I am your 
father but ” 

Bertha laid her hand upon her heart, to indicate the 
source of her knowledge. 

“ I left you when you were a little babe ; but do 
not, my child, judge me too severely till you know all.” 

Bertha laid her hands upon his shoulder, and looked 
into his eyes. Her glance revealed to him the ground- 
lessness of doubt as to her confidence and affection. 

“ Tell me about yourself,” he said ; and, thus re- 
quested, she recounted briefly what she remembered 
of her life with the Bedstones and her subsequent career 
at the home of her grandparents. In deep thoughtful- 
ness, he listened ; not a word escaped him, and he asked 
innumerable questions. 

“ And now, papa, come home, and ” 

Laycourt opened his lips to speak, and she was 
silent. 

“Hot now,” he said. “I cannot now tell you my 
reason ; but I cannot go with you. Bertha, I have a 
request to make of you. Will you grant it ? Tell no 
one, not even your grandfather, that you have seen me 
or that I am here ; let no one know as yet that I am 
still living.” 

Bertha listened in amazement to this singular re- 
quest. 

“ Will you indulge my wish, Bertha ?” 

“Hare I do otherwise? Would I disregard your 
wish in anything, unless you bade me not to love 
you ?” 

“ Had I not seen you and never before had heard 
you speak, that answer would have informed me that 
you are her daughter ;” and he pointed at the grave. 

“ You have not yet told me about yourself,” re- 
minded Bertha. 

“ Ho ; let us defer that subject for a time ; some 
time you shall know all. At present, I wish to know 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


241 


about you. Bertha, our meeting, the position in which 
I find you, above all, yourself — have made me happier 
than I thought I could be. But I am not surprised to 
find you as I do. Be assured, I was not in ignorance 
concerning you and your surroundings, and knew you 
to be well provided for, notwithstanding your desertion 
by your father. Desertion? no; do not believe me, 
my darling. My conscience, scarcely less than your too 
credulous heart, acquits me of that unnatural crime.” 

“ Tell me of the past whatever and whenever you 
will, papa, but so much tell me now of the future, that 
you will never leave me again ; never, never.” 

Laycourt remained silent, and looked downward. 
Soon he looked up and spoke. 

“ Bertha,” he said, “ there is nothing within the pos- 
sible range of my power to grant that I would with- 
hold from you. Believe me, then, if I can comply 
with your wish consistently with your own welfare, 
you have made no vain request. Are you satisfied?” 

“ Perfectly ; then you will not leave me, for that 
were inconsistent with my welfare. Now will you 
not tell me about mother? I have learned so little of 
her, and want to know so much. Grandfather says 
he saw her but once. Tell me all about her, papa.” 

Laycourt was silent for some moments. 

“ Bertha, would you know her as she was ? Conjure 
the holy images, love, truth, and purity, joined in a 
perfect union ; then lend your picture a becoming form 
of external grace and loveliness, and you behold your 
mother. This being, it was my fortune to meet. I 
shall not say that I loved her ; any words would but 
degrade my feelings. We lived together two years, 
fraught with a host of tender recollections. — My faith- 
ful Constance! my sainted wife! can memory restore a 
glimpse of the past, the blessed days that never, never 
more can be ? 

“ My daughter, need I tell you that we were happy ? 
She was my queen, who ruled my heart and soul and 
banished care from our home, — her dominion and my 
paradise. At that time there came to us the little one 
whose hand I now hold. 
l q 


21 


242 * BERTHA LAYCOURT. 

“Bertha, there came a change. Death took her 
from me and my home was desolate.” 

Bertha hid her face upon her father’s shoulder. 

“She was not ill long. One dreary, awful night, I 
returned home to find her gone, — gone beyond my 
heart’s recall. It was a sudden, dreadful blow. It 
dazed — bewildered — maddened me. I ran forth from 
my home into the outer world. At the time, I knew 
not what I did. What afterwards transpired, I shall 
relate to you hereafter.” 

He paused, while Bertha uttered some words of 
tender sympathy. “ But why did you not take me 
with you to share your troubles ? Why did you not go 
home and let grandfather know ?” 

“ I had no home after your mother left me. Some 
time you will learn more.” 

“ It is enough that we are again together,” said 
Bertha. “ Come home with me now ; come, let us go.” 

It now occurred to her that her grandfather was 
still ignorant of his son’s existence ; and, ascribing 
that circumstance to her own detention, — extremely 
selfish, as it appeared to her, — she arose and took his 
hand, with the design to lead him to her carriage ; but 
he gently restrained her. 

“ No, Bertha, I cannot go with you now ; it is im- 
possible.” 

He had made the same statement to her before ; but she 
had been too startled by the revelation then preceding 
it to be amazed by any act or proposition. Now, how- 
ever, she started back in surprise. 

“ What, papa,” she said, “ do you mean that you do 
not want grandfather to know all this ? I understand ; 
you fear that the good news will be conveyed with too 
much suddenness by your own appearance and that 
the delightful shock will injure him ?” 

For some time, Laycourt remained silent and 
thoughtful, and Bertha regarded him with a deep in- 
terest, and an approach of apprehension. 

He was only forty-three years of age, though he 
looked to be more than fifty. His full heard was 
plentifully streaked with gray, and the sad expression 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


243 


which she beheld upon his face seemed to have found 
there a permanent abode. It required no partial eye 
to detect grace in his movements and dignity in his 
bearing. He was attired very plainly, but looked no 
less the gentleman by reason of the lack of that which 
usually essays to constitute the gentleman. 

“ My daughter,” he said, after mature deliberation, 
“ before meeting you, I foresaw the necessity to give you 
an explanation which could not but bo painful to you 
and which I would gladly now withhold. In fact, you 
may ascribe to that desire our lengthy separation, 
which was to me a torture and deprivation no longer 
to be endured. I shall tell you my story, at least so 
much as I need now impart. You must know why I 
left my little child, remained absent so many years, 
and, when I first met her at this place, did not yield to 
my desire to claim her, and why I would not now meet 
my father. Deeply as I regret to tell you the sad 
story of my past life, I deem it better that you know 
all than that you grope about in the dark for reasons 
which would not appear to you. Knowledge, however 
bitter, is more endurable than uncertainty ; because, 
unknowing, we assume the worst. I have often an- 
ticipated this time, and have thought much upon the 
subject ; yet I am no more able now to tell you my 
stor} 7, than I would be if it had never occasioned me a 
single thought.” 

He seated her beside himself, and commenced his 
narration, which he made with much deliberateness. 

“Since your early childhood* you have lived with 
your grandfather and know the motives which impel 
his acts. The kindness which has marked his treat- 
ment of you was accorded me while with him. If 
then from my words you can imply a single word dis- 
paraging to my parents, ascribe it solely to my own in- 
gratitude rather than to their deserts. Until my man- 
hood, I remained with them, and it was at that period 
that our first misunderstanding occurred. That time 
marked the birth of my ineffable joy, the near advent 
of my deepest misery. At that time, I met your 
mother. She lived with her uncle, near the village of 


244 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


your birth. They had no means beyond those neces- 
sary for immediate requirements, while my father was 
then, as he is now, a wealthy man. She was just your 
age, and there is about you so much bearing a resem- 
blance, and in many respects a similarity, to her, that 
with you before me, I can readily recall her every 
feature. When I went to my parents with my tale, 
we had already exchanged vows of eternal fidelity, — 
vows which neither life nor death could break nor cir- 
cumstances alter. My father, it appeared, had formed 
his own projects in connection with my marriage and 
with them my own design was at variance. My 
mother shared his thoughts and wishes ; but, had he 
been less firm, she would doubtless have yielded ; for, 
though proud, she was ever under the influence of his 
strong will. When I informed him of my love for the 
village girl and my intention to make her my wife, he 
told me of his plans, and, while willing to forego his 
own preference, he required me to abandon my design. 
This I could not and I would not do. He afforded me 
but one alternative. I had either to renounce my be- 
trothed, or my claims to his home and fortune. Who 
could have hesitated to choose his lot from that scale ? 
On one side, a glittering pile, often to be found in the 
home of the most base; on the other, a rare and lus- 
trous gem, the purest work of nature. Leaving my 
home, I returned to her, who sought to dissuade me 
from insuring my happiness, but in vain. I had, as I 
believed, ample means to sustain us throughout our 
lives, and proceeded without fear or hesitation ; but I 
lacked experience ; and, in one year, — each day of 
which approved and ratified my choice, — my money 
w r as squandered in various investments. Then I went 
to work, for you, for her; and, in such a cause, can 
you doubt that I worked with a will? But to work 
such as I could procure, my powers were not adapted. 
I had no intercourse or correspondence with my par- 
ents. Let me spare you the humiliating details. Your 
mother was of a delicate organization, and my troubles 
were vultures that preyed upon her mind and spirits. 
Of many comforts which, in her state of health, were to 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


245 


her necessities, she was deprived. Not a murmur did 
she utter ; no word save love and hope and comfort ; 
and soon, all too soon, she left me.” 

He paused, and looked upon the ground in silence. 
Bertha had listened thus far to his narrative without 
interruption. Now her face assumed a deathly pallor. 
As his last words fell upon her attentive ears, and she 
divined in part the dreadful truth, she arose from her 
seat and stretched her trembling arms towards her 
father. 

“ Father,” she gasped, “ what — what do you mean ? 
do you mean that mother died because — because ” 

She could proceed no further. Her form was trem- 
bling like a branch. Laycourt took her in his arms, 
and with a mighty effort regained his own composure. 

“Calm yourself, my daughter,” he said. “You im- 
agine more than I shall tell. Even upon that fatal 
day we were not without an abundance of food and 
other necessaries.” 

This statement, truthful in itself, facilitated his efforts 
to restore to her a measure of tranquillity. Hiff own 
wonderful calmness alone rendered his success possible. 

“Your mother Vas always delicate; yet, had she 
had only her own cares to oppress her, she never would 
have yielded ; but, as to me there was no joy without 
her, so I had no sorrow which she did not share.” 

“ My sweet mother !” were the words which Bertha 
uttered. 

“ Bertha, on that fatal night, when I returned to my 
home with some medicine, he was there, my father. 
He spoke to me. I did not heed him nor his words. 
My loved one was no more.” 

A sob burst from his daughter at this despairing cry. 
She could control herself no* longer. She threw her 
arms about his neck and wept in silence. In vain he 
endeavored to soothe her. Her heart, surcharged with 
a weight of sympathy and sorrow, sought relief. 

“ My poor young darling !” he said tenderly. “ Why 
did I return, to oppress you with a woe of which you 
never should have heard ?” 

“ No, papa,” articulated Bertha, amid her sobs, “ it 
21 * 


246 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


was right that you tell me. I have a right to know 
and to share your troubles. Do not cast me off. Oh I 
how you must have suffered, with no one near to com- 
fort you. Why did you not take me with you?” 

“You, my Bertha? I left you to better care than I 
could have given you, though, when I left, I knew not 
what I did. I was mad. I rushed from my home and 
never entered it again. What followed, I need not now 
relate ; to me, my after-life is devoid of interest. In 
distant lands, I learned to work, that I might some day 
return and reclaim my child. I would not take you 
from a home of wealth and comfort, to share with a 
forsaken outcast a life of toil and care. But do you 
think that for a single hour you were absent from my 
heart and memory ? I strove hard to obtain a home 
to which I could take my little girl, the gift which she 
had left me ; but misfortune alone clung to me with 
constancy. Several times, after years of effort had 
produced results, I resolved to come and claim my 
own ; but I durst not do it. I was not in ignorance 
of you and your surroundings, nor did I deem it wise 
to follow the promptings of my soul. I feared the re- 
sult now realized. At last, I could* resist the sole de- 
sire of my life no longer, and came. I determined to 
go near you, to see you, to hear you speak, and then, 
contented, to be gone. My resolution was formed in 
vain. When accident devised our meeting at this 
place, do you wonder now that I stood before you as 
though transfixed? Again you came, and I did not 
resist the powerful temptation that besieged me.” 

“You would have gone away without revealing 
yourself to me? Dear, cruel, papa!” 

His only answer was to caress the little hands which 
he held all this while. 

“How, Bertha,” he said, “do not grieve over mat- 
ters which, though new to you, have long been buried 
in the past. Your mother lived and died in peace and 
happiness. The two fleeting years that she was with 
me gave me more bliss than is allotted to man. Each 
glimpse of you divests me of care, and makes me for- 
get that there was ever in my life a time which pre- 


BERTHA LAYCOURT 


247 


sented to me nothing hut despair. You have constantly 
enjoyed the happiness which you deserve, and there is 
nothing in the past — as there is in the future nothing — 
to disturb the genial forces which control your destiny.” 

Bertha arose from her seat, stood before her father, 
and took his hand. 

“ Papa,” she said, “you have told me of the past, over 
which we can but weep and mourn, but which we never 
can recall. Let us now turn to the present. You have 
returned and never will leave me again. Come home 
with me.” 

Laycourt gazed upon the imploring face before him. 
His own countenance bore evidence of the powerful 
conflict raging in his breast. 

“ Ho not, my daughter, urge me to that from which 
my soul revolts, for I cannot resist and I must not 
yield.” 

“ Must not ? can an unfortunate disagreement, that 
may at any time arise between two noble souls, deter 
you now from coming to my grandparent, your father, 
who never could, with knowledge or design, have 
wronged you ? I know he is too noble and generous to 
wrong any one, and loved you too well to wrong you. I 
know that he knew nothing of your troubles ; else, do 
not doubt, your troubles would not have been. I wish — 
I wish that you had let him know all. How prompt 
would have been his response ! W ere it possible for you 
to do aught but good, nothing that you could do would 
deprive me of my love for you. For grandfather’s 
sake, come with me, and, if not for him nor me, do it for 
the sake of my mother.” 

The former portion of these remarks, Bertha ex- 
pressed with unusual force and energy. Having con- 
cluded, she feared that, in conveying to her father a 
hint of duty, — her language being susceptible of that 
misconstruction, — she had gone too far, and hastened 
to make amends for this supposed misconduct. 

“ Forgive me, papa, if I say anything which I do not 
mean, because I mean nothing more than that I want 
you to come home with me; indeed that is all I mean.” 

“ I understand you well, my daughter ; and, believe 


248 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


me, rather than deny you a single request or comfort 
which I can grant, I would renounce all my requests 
and comforts. You cannot realize the pain forced on 
me by necessity, because you cannot comprehend my 
situation in those days, no more, therefore, the changes 
wrought in my life by those events. Grant that my 
father did not know the condition of affairs, and that, 
had he known all, he would have hastened to my 
amelioration ; grant all that, and the truth remains : 
he, my father, was reclining in superfluous wealth 
while my wife lacked the ordinary comforts of life. I 
do not hold him accountable for that ; I am not so un- 
reasonable as that. It is not the fact itself which ren- 
ders me indifferent to him, but it is its connection with 
the dread past ; and I would not, if I could, relieve my 
mind from the burden of this association of events. To 
gaze now upon my father were to recall that I, your 
father, was forced to desert my child. How could I 
gaze upon my mother’s portrait without recalling the 
image of your mother? What further thoughts must 
then arise from those connections ? What ! enter the 
home denied to her? did then her sweet life remove 
the barrier between them and me ? Bertha, it is just 
and proper that you honor your grandparents as you 
do ; to leave undisturbed these holy relations, I re- 
mained away from you, the slave of a most powerful 
desire, which I would not gratify. Bather than dis- 
turb your relations with them, concluding that misery 
alone was predestined for me, I would have remained 
aloof forever. I am grateful to your grandfather for 
what he has done for my child ; beyond that, I have 
no feeling for him. Do you see that stone on which is 
inscribed my name? They thought there to have 
buried me ; they buried but the heart that beat for 
them. There lies your mother. She was my past ; 
you are my present and future. Earth contains no 
more for me.” 

These words, spoken calmly and impressively, fell 
with painful force upon Bertha’s ears. She did not 
speak, but stood before him, a mute appeal which she 
could not repress still speaking from her eyes. 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


249 


“ Can you conceive the cost at which I maintain my 
resolve ? Do you realize the sacrifice which it entails ? 
Bertha, Bertha, you are all the world to me ; you are 
my life, my hope, my world, my heaven. Would I 
ever leave you ? Never, never. To see you, I shall 
remain upon a single spot forever, or follow you around 
the world ; but I cannot — I cannot go to my father’s 
home.” 

Bertha, perceiving that this was no sudden resolve 
and noticing the pain produced by his refusal of her 
request, reluctantly abandoned her purpose for the time 
being. 

“ If you will not come home with me, papa, where 
can we go ?” was her inquiry. 

“We go?” he repeated. “You will return to the 
place where you are expected and where you belong ; I 
to my temporary quarters, to wait until fate vouchsafes 
mean opportunity to meet you again. I understand 
you, Bertha, and ask you to dismiss all such thoughts, 
or you will make me lose again all that I have gained. 
For years I remained aloof from you because, as it 
was beyond my power to contribute to your happi- 
ness, I resolved at least to prove no obstacle to it. 
No, let me proceed. I had already wrecked one young 
and innocent life, one whom I thought to have taken 
from poverty to riches. Why then should I have taken 
my sole remaining treasure from riches to poverty? 
Bertha, if you will let me remain here near you, I beg 
you to observe my wish : do not again broach a project 
such as you have just entertained.” 

Bertha, sorely perplexed, was constrained to remain 
silent. Her thoughts, in their disturbed state, could 
not then be collated. Laycourt could not know how 
deep were the wounds inflicted by him, how lacerated 
was the heart into which sank his words. 

“ Let us not repine, but rejoice together,” he said. 
“Henceforth my life will be no longer without hope or 
aim. You have inspired me with new life ; you have 
given me a soul and an object of existence. With you 
in my proximity and often within sight, I ask for noth- 
ing more, and I return to my solitude with hope and 


250 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


contentment, until again I meet you. See, Bertha, 
you must leave me; a storm is approaching. The 
clouds are moving swiftly, and clouds obscure sun- 
light.” 

Bertha realized the necessity of haste to elude the 
coming storm and arose. Very wistfully she gazed 
upon her father’s face. 

“ Papa, when may I see you again ?” she questioned. 

“ Whenever you desire me to be at this place ; for, as 
yet, I have no permanent home; but so it will not be 
long. Bertha, I have asked too much of you. You 
cannot come to see me unless my presence is known to 
your grandfather. For that reason, he will have to 
be informed of my existence ; otherwise, I would prefer 
to have him think me as dead to others as I am to 
him. Will you meet me here again?” 

“ To-morrow,” said Bertha. 

“ No, not to-morrow. There are various reasons for 
which I would not have you come so soon as I desire 
to see you. Will you come the day thereafter?” 

“ The earliest hour named by you will be to me most 
pleasing,” said Bertha. 

“ The same hour at which we met to-day. And 
now, Bertha, we must go; the clouds look threaten- 
ing.’ 

He folded her mantle carefully about her. 

“ My daughter, you are not angry with me ?” 

Bertha turned upon him a look of infinite tender- 
ness. She uttered no word, but he was answered. 
He kissed her, and they parted. 

When visiting the cemetery, Bertha usually took 
occasion to examine the tombs and to read the inscrip- 
tions which appealed to her interest and sympathy. 
The coachman was wont either to wait or drive off 
and return at the lapse of an hour. On this occasion 
he had been detained by an accident, and arrived just 
at the time he was wanted. 

Filled with a thousand struggling thoughts and feel- 
ings, Bertha was driven to her home. 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


251 


CHAPTER XXX. 

Fortunately, when she arrived home, her grand- 
sire was absent ; and she immediately repaired to her 
own apartment, of which she closed and locked the 
door. Hurriedly, she threw aside her hat and mantle ; 
so hurriedly that she unloosed her hair, which fell in 
profusion over her shoulders. Thus she stood, in the 
centre of the room, her eyes sparkling with the excite- 
ment under which she was laboring. 

She was bewildered. All appeared so strange to her. 
Her father, whom in her childhood she had never seen, 
was living and she had spoken with him. This was 
the first thought to which her mind reverted ; and, 
while she reflected and marvelled upon it, she was 
happy. 

Soon, however, recurred to her the mournful tale 
which he had narrated, a recollection of his sad face, 
and the pale image of her mother, as pictured by her 
imagination. Gazing about her, she observed her own 
magnificent surroundings. She looked upon the costly 
bracelets encircling her wrists ; and, recollecting that 
they had withheld their assistance where it was so 
urgently required, took them hastily from her arms 
and threw them upon the bed. This done, she remem- 
bered that they had been presented to her by her 
grandfather, and, picking them up tenderly, kissed and 
soothed them in contrition. A sense of her own in- 
gratitude now brought greater torments to her bosom, 
and she sought relief in a free flow of tears, that had 
until recently been rare visitors to her eyes. When 
she arose, she was again tranquil and could think 
calmly. 

Her grandfather, she knew, would soon return j and, 
before that time, she must decide upon the course 
to be pursued. One thought alone led to a definite 
conclusion, and that related to a reconciliation of her 
father with his parent. She pictured to herself the 


252 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


delight with which the latter would hear of his son’s 
continued existence, and it inspired her with hope for 
a happy outcome. Added to this was the unqualified 
confidence possessed by her in her grandfather’s re- 
sources and powers of accomplishment. Now she was 
in a condition to think rationally upon the subject. 

That there must have been some grave misapprehen- 
sion to which the misunderstanding between her two 
relatives was ascribable, she did not doubt. No more did 
she question that her grandfather would have hastened 
to his son’s relief if he had known his troubles. She 
recalled the fact that he had actually been at the home 
of his son, presumably when he had learned the real 
condition of affairs. 

Her grandfather returning, eager to tell him her 
great secret, she ran to the door. Suddenly she halted. 
How could she tell him that his son still lived and re- 
fused to come to him? Yet could she tell him part? 
Both thoughts rebelled. She knew not what to do, and 
resolved to leave the matter to occasion and impulse. 

She went below, and, in her greeting of her grand- 
father, evinced, if anything unusual, an increased ten- 
derness. She found it impossible to express a word of 
the weighty secret on her mind, as after tea, Mr. Lay- 
court went to pay a visit to a sick friend, and she found 
no opportunity to speak. 

That was the first sleepless night she ever passed. 
Not until towards morning did she obtain a few hours 
of restless slumber. 

It was the first time she had ever been placed in such 
a deplorable situation ; the first matter upon which she 
could not seek the aid of her guardian ; the first day of 
her life that she had cause to be really miserable. But 
these reflections did not occur to her. Her thoughts 
were of her father and her guardian. 

Yet she could not long exclude her own future course 
from her consideration. If, as her father had assured 
her, reconciliation was impossible, what could she do? 
ought she to leave her grandfather, to whom she owed 
her existence and happiness, and thus return a base in- 
gratitude for his unparalleled kindness and affection ? 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


253 


or to desert her father, and let him struggle alone with 
his misfortune? Whichever course she resolved to 
adopt, her resolution appeared to her ungrateful and 
unnatural. Her grandfather was an old man ; and, 
though still vigorous and less aged in appearance than 
in years, to the young girl his years were many. How 
could she, after all he had done for her, while he re- 
garded her with a more than paternal love, forsake 
him? No, no, it could not be. No tie, no duty, could 
exact an act so base. 

Again the sad countenance of her father appeared to 
her, and with it came a recollection of his past suffer- 
ings. Was he thus to be left alone, to wander through 
the world in misery, perhaps in want, while she con- 
tinued to live on in affluence and content? No, it 
could never be ; it were a monstrous crime. 

With this tormenting problem, the young girl who 
had never previously known a day of care was met. 
She, upon whom no weighty responsibility had ever 
fallen, was suddenly confronted with a moral problem 
of the highest importance. 

Having at all times had the best of counsel, in her 
great extremity there was no one to whom she could 
turn. What friend could advise in a so delicate mat- 
ter? what counsel could satisfy her? Earnestly she 
invoked the aid of conscience and duty. In vain. She 
saw with clearness nothing but her own deep misery. 

Mr. Laycourt was detained at his office until a late 
hour. During the day, he sent her a watch and chain 
of new design. Never did a costly gift produce such 
cruel pangs. 

Towards evening, he returned. Perhaps he was no 
less surprised than pleased at the more than usual 
warmth with which she expressed her gratitude. 
Leading her into the library, he perused some let- 
ters which he found there. Bertha all this time con- 
tinued to observe him. 

“ No, I cannot, I cannot,” she mentally concluded ; 
and, when he looked up, he was startled to see an 
unmistakable look of anguish on the face of the girl 
seated near him. She felt that her face had betrayed 
22 


254 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


her and sought to cover it with her hands. The old 
man approached her. 

“ What can be the matter with my Birdie?” was his 
tender query. 

Bertha removed her hands from her face, and looked 
up into his eyes with an expression which he had never 
before beheld there. 

“Nothing, grandpapa; what can trouble me? have 
you not driven from me all care, as you have given me 
all happiness? What can I want that I have not? — 
Oh, grandpapa! must I leave you?” 

The old man fairly staggered as the startling ques- 
tion burst so suddenly upon him. In a moment, he 
was himself again. 

“ Leave me, my pet ? No, never. How can you ask 
me such a question ?” 

Bertha raised her drooping h§ad. 

“ Grandpapa, I shall tell you something strange and 
wonderful. Prepare for joyful news. My father was 
never drowned upon a ship; he escaped and lived a 
long time after that accident.” 

The old man’s face was now as pale as death. He 
made several efforts before he could succeed to speak. 

“ Speak, Bertha ; do you mean — can it be that he is 
now living ?” 

“ Yes, he lives ; I have seen him ; I have spoken with 
him.” 

Bertha had intended to proceed with care and cau- 
tion, but her nature would admit no such restraint. 
Her grandfather’s face, very pale, betrayed a variety of 
strong emotions, which he could not control nor she 
interpret. Seating himself on a chair, he looked upon 
the carpet, and drew his hand across his forehead. 
She seated herself at his feet and rested her arms 
upon his knees. 

“ Is it true ?” he murmured, in a voice almost inaudible. 
“Is my son living ? why does he not come to me ?” 

Quickly Bertha’s lids drooped, and she turned away. 
For a brief time, both were silent. 

“ Bertha, have you really seen your father? where 
was it ? where is he now ? Tell me all about him.” 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


255 


“ Indeed I have seen him. It was at the cemetery. 
I met him more than a week ago. I did not know 
him, but there was in his looks and manner something 
which leads me now to wonder that I did not recog- 
nize in him my father. Yesterday at the same place, 
we met again. Before he knew I was there, I heard 
him speak to mother words which told me all. He 
concealed the truth no longer. He told me who he 
was and much of his past life and of mother. His 
name appeared on the roll of passengers on an ill-fated 
boat, but he was never upon it, and was spared to us.” 

“ Why did he not let us know ? why does he not 
come to me ?” 

Questions difficult for Bertha to answer. Again 
there was silence between them. 

“ Proceed, Bertha, tell me all he said to you.” 

Bertha began to speak, but was impelled to stop in 
great confusion. 

“ I understand,” said Mr. Laycourt. “ I know why 
he does not come to me.” 

He shook his head in silence. Soon he arose and 
rapidly paced the floor. 

“ Truly, I have good cause to rejoice at my son’s re- 
turn,” he said. “After an absence of many years, and 
being mourned as dead, he returns, to cherish but the 
resentments of the past — to take from me my darling’s 
confidence.” 

“ How can you think so ?” 

She was beside him now, her hands were resting 
upon his arm. She kissed his troubled face. 

“ Is there on earth anything that can for a moment 
come between us ?” she said. “ Who would make such 
an unholy attempt ? My father is too noble for such a 
deed ; for is he not your son ?” 

They looked into each other’s eyes. It was a look 
of mutual love and confidence. They seated them- 
selves upon the sofa. Mr. Laycourt was himself again. 

“ He told you all ?” he inquired. 

“ No, grandpapa ; I do not know how much he left 
untold. He told me only of his trouble long ago, and 
of mother.” 


256 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


“ Did he tell you of her last illness ?” he inquired, — 
“ that is, the cause ? Do you know the painful de- 
tails ?” 

“ Yes, I know that mother was weak and delicate, 
and lacked some of the comforts which might for a 
time have sustained her.” 

A great load was lifted from Mr. Lay court’s mind. 

“ Then let me tell you more,” he said. “ If my son 
had any just cause of complaint regarding his treat- 
ment w'hile at home, he certainly could not ascribe it 
to our intents. He was our only son. Your grand- 
mother and myself had no one in the world but him, 
and upon him we based our hopes. When he attained 
his manhood, we formed certain plans to insure his 
future welfare. We were no idle dreamers, and were 
experienced in the ways of the world. The most im- 
portant act which a man is called upon to perform is 
to choose a wife ; for upon that choice rest his life and 
happiness and those of others most dear to him. Shall 
such a choice depend upon a passing fancy ? shall it 
rest alone upon a youthful impression or fantasy? 
Bertha, this is what my son did. Without consulting 
either of his parents, without a hint of his intentions, 
he betrothed himself to a poor young girl whom we 
had never seen. Did such conduct indicate the presence 
of the discretion requisite to make a choice? To me, 
his conduct seemed rash and intolerable. I would not 
listen to him, — would that I had ! For, Bertha, your 
mother was the angel pictured by his fancy. Had I 
but known in time, or myself acted with less rashness ! 
But I did not then perceive the kind fate which had 
directed his choice. He wanted me to see her, and 
asked permission to bring her home ; but I was then as 
deaf to argument as he was to duty. So we parted. 
It was a sunderment only of our relations as father and 
son. Neither bestowed much thought upon the mat- 
ters of wealth and position. He had ample means to 
maintain his wife in comfort and plenty. He left his 
home, never, as I willed it, to return. Soon after we 
learned of his marriage, and then we heard of him for 
a time no more. We went abroad, and not until our 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


257 


return did I learn of his condition. I hastened then to 
his home ; but I arrived too late, — not too late, how- 
ever, to hold in life the hand of your gentle mother ; to 
hear her voice, and witness the flight of that pure soul. 

“ Bertha, you know all. I shall not say whether or 
not my son acted rightly throughout. It is enough 
that he made such a worthy choice, and that he gave 
me, in return for my severity, his daughter, to be my 
own forever.” 

What could the young girl say? how could she ad- 
here to her resolution? how could she rescind it? 

“Come, Bertha, be not distressed. What was it 
you said ? you leave me ? does your father want to take 
you from me ? Never, Bertha, never ; you never will 
leave me. If he will not come, let him remain aloof 
forever, but he cannot take you from me; he durst not 
attempt to do it. Without my consent, no power on 
earth will take you from me while I live.” 

His words were strong, emphatic, resolute. His 
gestures seemed to form a part of his powerful deter- 
mination. His voice and manner awed her, and for a 
time she could not speak ; as soon as she could do so, 
she addressed him. 

“ No, grandpapa, I did not tell you all ; father never 
said that I should leave you. On the contrary, he bade 
me remain.” 

“ Then does my Birdie want to leave me ?” 

In Bertha’s eyes, there was a world of tenderness 
and reproach. He required no further answer. 

“Then why do you contemplate such an impossible 
event ?” 

“Grandpapa, I have never concealed from you a 
hope or thought, and I know that you will understand 
me. Though my words and acts prove me a selfish 
ingrate, no thought is in my mind so clear, no other 
feeling in my heart so deep, as is my love for you. 
How, then, could I bear to leave you ? But remember, 
grandpapa, my father stands in the world alone and 
friendless, as though he had no daughter. He toils 
and struggles for a bare subsistence, while. I, his 
daughter, live in the luxury provided by your kind- 


258 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


ness, and enjoy all comfort and happiness which he 
cannot share. He remained away until now that I 
could have no opportunity to bear my proper share of 
his burdens. Can I forsake him ?” 

Very earnestly she spoke, and Mr. Laycourt was im- 
pressed. 

“ I appreciate the difficulties of your situation, 
Bertha. It is a problem which ought never to have 
been presented to you ; but, as it is, we will solve it as 
best we can. I lamented the calamity which befell 
him no less than did he. It was, indeed, deplorable; 
but, if lack of means was to any extent accountable 
for his trouble, why did he not let me know in time ? 
Why did he not write to me, if he knew that to be 
true? and, if he did not, how could I have known it? 
Had I known his wife, your mother, she would have 
been welcomed at my home. But I did not know her. 
True, he urged me to go with him to meet her; but 
of what avail could that have been ? He was already 
bound to her, and my judgment, to be influential, must 
have accorded with his own. Why speak of those 
days ? We find in them naught but sorrow and regret. 
My home is open to him now, if he will come. As for 
yourself, I understand the steps to which a conception 
of your filial duties urges you ; but you must discard 
the thought, and must not think of such a thing again. 
Will you observe my wishes, Bertha ?” 

“ Always, so long as I have power to think and 
act,” replied Bertha, to whom it never occurred that 
she had power to disregard the wishes of her grand- 
father. 

“ And further, Bertha, you must not let this matter 
trouble you ; for, rely upon it, the outcome will be 
better than now seems probable to you. Your father, 
though proud and strong-willed, never lacked a sense of 
justice, and he will soon learn to regard this matter in 
a different light. Away from home and solitary, he 
has harped upon his wrongs and troubles until they 
seemed to be, as they virtually were for the time, the 
vital elements of his existence. How all is different. 
He is once more at home, and has already seen you, 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


259 


with what effect I can surmise. Soon he will see that, 
though he cannot forget the past, there are yet for him 
a present and future.” 

“ Do you think that that will really soon be ?” in- 
quired Bertha. 

“ I am certain of it,” said Mr. Laycourt. u That is 
right, Bertha. Again I see you happy. Sorrow is not 
for you, and ought not to have received from you a 
so hospitable reception. Dismiss it now, and do not 
readmit it.” 

“ Grandpapa, do you not think that, if by some 
means you could meet father and speak with him, we 
all could soon be reunited ?” 

Mr. Laycourt reflected a time before replying. Ber- 
tha timidly awaited the result of her first suggestion 
of a means to him. 

“ It is quite probable,” he said; “ but how can such a 
meeting occur? He will not come to me. Does he 
expect me. to come to him ? or does he view the matter 
with an utter indifference, perhaps aversion? Shall I 
seek after a meeting which he avoids ? Upon that fatal 
day, I was at his home, and offered him my hand. He 
spurned the offer, and loaded me with reproaches deep 
and bitter. I cannot hold him to a strict account- 
ability for all he said at that time, for he was beyond 
human control ; though never, in his most rational 
hours, did his words create upon me such a deep im- 
pression as then. He is no longer young ; he is a man 
of knowledge and experience, and to-day he ratifies 
the words and sentiments then expressed, and which, 
when supported by deliberation, cannot be pardoned.” 

He paused, and slowly paced the floor. Bertha, 
never presuming to counsel him, observed him in 
silence; but again she was troubled. 

Many were the thoughts and varied were the sensa- 
tions of Mr. Laycourt. He seated himself and pon- 
dered long and deeply. Suddenly he arose and ap- 
proached her. His manner indicated that his course 
would not compromise his dignity. 

“ Bertha,” he said, “ I will go with you to your 
father.” 


260 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


A thrill of delight passed through the listener, who' 
embraced him with rapture. It was her only comment 
upon his resolve. For a minute both were silent and 
thoughtful. 

The moral effect wrought upon the young girl by 
this event was very strong. With keen interest, she 
had witnessed the battle of pride against itself, — the 
pride coupled with self and the pride which can re- 
solve itself into magnanimity. 

“As I have not allowed his pride and resentment to 
come between you and myself, so I shall not permit 
them to stand between you and him; I shall let nothing 
interpose between you and all that you may desire. 
Can I do less and deserve my Bertha’s confidence ?” 

From her eyes, he read her reply. 

“ I shall meet papa to-morrow,” she said. “We will 
find him there.” 

“We will be there,” said Mr. Laycourt, who, after 
deciding upon a course, treated subsequent steps of the 
proceedings in a purely business-like manner. Both 
now felt cheerful. Bertha entertained no more doubt 
or apprehension. Her grandfather having resolved, the 
result to her seemed now assured. 

When she was again alone she reviewed recent 
events. A heavy weight had been removed from her 
mind by her grandfather’s full knowledge of her secret 
and his proposed course. Now a recollection of the 
existence and actual presence of her father caused her 
heart to palpitate with joy. Yet there was one cir- 
cumstance which occasioned her much concern. The 
advance of the slightest hint of an intention to leave 
her home was violative of her delicacy ; and a recol- 
lection of her conduct in this regard caused her to 
shrink. It was not sufficient that he had forgiven her. 
She perceived only her own appearance of ingratitude, 
in strong contrast to his goodness ; and she feared that, 
while she loved him more than ever, his own affection 
for her could not survive the ordeal to which it had 
been subjected. 

But her fears, as it required some time for her to 
discover, were groundless. His treatment was not less 


BERTHA LAYCOTJRT. 


261 


kind than it had been formerly, nor was her presence 
less welcome to him ; and Bertha, soon admitting this 
gratifying fact to herself, attributed it entirely to his 
magnanimity. 

She was very impatient for the advent of the mor- 
row, and, had she known the whereabouts of her 
father, she would have gone to him at once. 

“ Do not be impatient, Bertha,” said Mr. Laycourt. 
“ All things, to be done well, must be done deliberately. 
To haste we may often ascribe the frustration of 
human plans. Acorns in their primitive state do not 
constitute a lumberman’s stock in trade.” 

In this conclusion she acquiesced as an abstract 
proposition ; but, despite her efforts, she could not sub- 
due her restless eagerness to anticipate the morrow. 


CHAPTEK XXXI. 

Harold Berwood sat upon the deck of the vessel 
conveying him to the shores of England, whence it was 
his intention to embark for India. 

He was not melancholy nor dejected. With only one 
object in view for the possession of which he longed, 
and realizing that the prize was forever beyond his 
grasp, he was yet for a time happy. 

Was it vanity alone that told him he was not indif- 
ferent to the young girl whom he loved ? or had Ber- 
tha unconsciously encouraged this idea ? It was enough 
for him that he felt it to be true. 

He entertained for the time no hope to see her again. 
He appreciated the necessity to avoid her, and deter- 
mined to remain away until, resigned to the difficult 
task assigned by duty, he could return, and claim the 
hand of his betrothed wife. 

For hours he sat upon the deck and thought of her ; 
strove to recall her every word to him at their last 
meeting, and dwelt again and again upon the subject 
which occupied his mind. 


262 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


Evening came, but wrought no change in his occu- 
pation. It was a lovely night, reminding him of the 
one upon which he had met her at the sea-shore. The 
moon shone with brilliancy, and adorned the ocean 
with a veil of silver. The waters danced with infinite 
grace to their own cadences ; and above, a blaze of 
jewels, were hordes of courtiers at the throne of heaven. 
This was the night’s banquet to the soul. 

There was on earth and beyond it nothing pure and 
beautiful that did not remind him of his love. In the 
heavens he beheld the reflection of her soul ; the moon 
but revealed the beauties of her nature ; the stars most 
brilliant were her expressive eyes ; the graceful undu- 
lations of the waves followed her movements ; the whole 
scene was but a symbol of her virtue and purity. 

Long after the other passengers had retired, he paced 
the deck, and was absorbed with the one theme. It 
seemed to him a brief time since he had last been aboard 
a vessel, and yet he recalled that then he had not 
known Lucy Berrill. To him, that period contained 
the experience of his past ; all else that was, existed 
for him no more. 

Well knowing that he could not possess her, he did 
not even contemplate the possibility to cease to love 
her. He would not, if he could, have renounced his 
love, hopeless though it should remain forever. It was 
a deep, abiding, holy feeling, independent of a selfish 
desire of possession. He felt that, even were he not 
fettered by any ties, he could absent himself from her 
presence forever if her welfare demanded such a sac- 
rifice. 

Yes, he must never see her again ; and now the 
thought saddened him. Each mile traversed increased 
the distance between them ; each passing hour length- 
ened by days the period that had elapsed since their 
parting. Onward he journeyed, realizing now fully 
how dear she was to him. 

He made no motion to retire until morning, and then, 
after a few hours’ sleep, he arose refreshed and went on 
deck. 

His first reflection was that he was constantly in- 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


263 


creasing the distance between himself and her. Do 
what he would, he could not now shake off a feeling of 
depression ; and he realized that his rebellious heart 
would not easily be quelled. Why, he asked himself, 
had fate made his life to be such a mockery ? giving 
him all that rendered him happy in the eyes of man- 
kind, and withholding from him all that he desired ? 
One has little if he lacks much. 

The morning bears the heavy weight of care, which, 
as the day advances, becomes a less oppressive burden ; 
and, by noon, Harold was again in a condition to in- 
vite calm thought. 

How he remembered that he had assigned himself 
the task to control his love, though he would not con- 
quer it ; and it occurred to him that to think constantly 
upon it was not the surest means to achieve his pur- 
pose. He comprehended that the value of a plan lies 
in its execution. Wise plans are often made by fools, 
though executed only by the wise. A weak mind often 
forms strong resolutions ; a strong mind alone observes 
them. These reflections stimulated Harold to greater 
exertion than was demanded by his desire. 

The former portion of the second day at sea was 
devoted to his favorite authors ; but there was in every 
poem and tale something that reminded him of Lucy. 
The attempt to divert his mind from that one topic 
was not successful, and he felt that to cease to think 
of her were to cease to think. 

He shrank from a means of extrication appealing 
strongly to his selfishness in total disregard of the 
claims of others. Ho; to ask to be released from his 
engagement was then out of the question. He would 
not even give the thought a fair consideration. He 
had the good fortune to meet some congenial com- 
panions, among them a Hew York gentleman, with 
whom he engaged in conversation. Various names 
were mentioned to determine their common acquaint- 
ance, and, among others, the gentleman mentioned 
Mr. Laycourt’s name. 

“ Yes, I am acquainted with Mr. Laycourt,” said 
Harold, with secret regret. 


264 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


“ Then you have also met his granddaughter, Miss 
Bertha?” inquired his interlocutor. 

“ Yes, I have met her, but not for many years. She 
was a child when I last saw her.” 

Harold wondered why it was ordained that at all 
times and places he must be reminded of that name 
and his own position. 

“ Then you would probably not know her, should you 
see her to-day.” 

“ I think I would know her anywhere at any time,” 
said Harold. 

What the gentleman then said concerning Miss Lay- 
court proved him to be an enthusiastic friend of that 
lady, but from this subject Harold was then unable to 
derive any gratification. 

From personal matters, they proceeded to a general 
discussion of events and principles. 

There were other passengers of note aboard the ves- 
sel, and all joined to render the voyage as agreeable as 
possible. Thus Harold’s time did not hang heavily on 
his hands until his arrival in England. 

He remained one week in London, where, according 
to a cablegram awaiting him at the hotel, Roger G-irdon 
designed to meet him. At the lapse of that time, he 
received a letter from his friend, who regretted his ina- 
bility to execute his design, but promised to meet him 
at Rome a month later. 

In England, Germany, and France, wherever Har- 
old went, he encountered friends, and received many 
invitations which vanity, alone consulted, would have 
forbade him to decline. Nevertheless, he declined them 
for a time, until he perceived clearly that his course by 
no means aided his plan, when he began to mingle again 
in society. 

For a long time, he saw no ship depart for America 
without a keen longing to take passage. At times, it 
was difficult to restrain this impulse. 

He visited Switzerland and Italy, through which he 
had travelled before, yet was no less impressed by the 
sublimity of his surroundings. 

But he did not contemplate leading a roving life for- 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


265 


ever, and already felt impelled to more productive 
action. It was this impulse which urged his return 
to his home, to submit to his fate and follow the career 
to which his inclinations led him. G-reat as were be- 
fore his longings for his own land, now, when his 
course was fully outlined, he hesitated to return ; but 
at last he dismissed his desires and preferences without 
ceremony; and, as a step preliminary to his return, 
he wrote a letter to his father, in substantially these 
terms : 

“It will doubtless occasion you much surprise to 
learn that I was recently in America and near you, 
yet failed to come to the home to which my wishes 
urgently directed me. This is as true as that I now 
purpose returning soon. 

“ With a part of the circumstances chargeable with 
the responsibility for conduct which you may deem 
peculiar, you are familiar. You know the promise by 
which I am bound and to the redemption of which my 
honor is pledged. When, some time ago, I embarked 
for America, I did so with the intention to fulfil that 
agreement, and thought myself to be supported by a 
strong resolution ; but, after arriving, I discovered my 
error, and returned to Europe. 

“ Of course, I realize that I have proceeded too far 
and have maintained a too continuous silence to recede 
now from my position, and am prepared to do what- 
ever may be required by honor and justice. First, 
then, I wish to ascertain the exact condition of affairs, 
concerning which I beg you will be good enough to 
enlighten me. 

“ Does Miss Laycourt regard her engagement with 
the seriousness and intent with which it presents itself 
to me? Does she act under inclination or protest? 
and does Mr. Laycourt consider the agreement to be 
mutually binding and calling for fulfilment ? You will 
appreciate the importance of this information to me, 
to guide me in my immediate course. 

“ I am constrained to say, however, that this mar- 
riage may not be a source of perfect happiness to any 
of us ; for without heeding fallacy and morbid sen- 
m 23 


266 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


timent, I think that such relationship should be based 
upon the loftiest principles and purest sentiments.” 

In course of time, he went to Eome, where he re- 
ceived an answer from his father. It was a character- 
istic letter and one such as he had expected. 

After the usual heading, the letter read : 

“ To say that the announcement of your recent visit 
to America and your failure to come home occasioned 
my surprise is only your mild way of putting things. 
I shall not now be surprised if, upon the next return 
purposed, you merely send your regrets. 

“I do not know to what circumstances you allude 
which you say are known to me and that kept you 
from your home. Those known to me are but induce- 
ments to come, and not to go. Whatever there is ter- 
rible in a fate which has aroused the envy of illustrious 
men, I am unable to perceive. It appears, even hap- 
piness, obtainable, is valueless. 

“ I agree with you that love is essential to a happy 
marriage, but I see no reason why you should not love 
Bertha. I have no doubt but you will love her when 
you meet her again, as every one else does. 

“ Concerning the state of her feelings, I cannot 
speak with positiveness, inasmuch as it is a subject 
upon which I cannot with propriety question her, and 
she never refers to the matter. It is. enough that, in 
view of the many advantages and opportunities which 
have awaited her slightest encouragement and which 
would have tempted another girl, she has remained 
faithful to you. Laycourt certainly deems the mat- 
ter to be definitely fixed, and, as for myself, believe 
me, I would prefer to lose all I have than to have this 
engagement broken. Kemember that I have acted on 
behalf of my son. Am I liable to neglect his inter- 
ests? I leave that question to be answered by your- 
self after your return, which will, I hope, be no longer 
deferred.” 

Harold now awaited the coming of his friend, and 
the same vessel which conveyed the letter brought 
him. 

During the day, they visited places of historical in- 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 267 

terest, and it was not until evening that they seated 
themselves and had a conversation. 

“Well, what are your present intentions?” inquired 
Eoger. 

“ To return home and go to Miss Laycourt. What 
else can I do ? Bead this letter.” And Harold handed 
him the letter. Eoger read it, and, having done so, 
looked thoughtfully at Harold. 

“ Do you really intend to sacrifice yourself to your 
father’s whim ? It is only a whim ; for, grant that 
Miss Laycourt is all that he claims her to be, yet are 
there not other women who would make good wives ?” 

“ As my father indicates, Miss Laycourt has proba- 
bly had magnificent offers, one of which she might 
have accepted but for her adherence to our compact. 
I mention this only as a possibility; but the mere pos- 
sibility, however remote, should be sufficient to direct 
me.” 

“And do you expect Miss Laycourt to be grateful 
for such a sacrifice?” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ My meaning is not involved. Do you think that a 
young lady who has had the splendid offers which you 
say she has had to be grateful for the hand of a man 
who bestows it only with reluctance ?” 

“ I shall manifest no appearance of reluctance, you 
may rely upon that,” said Harold, “ though ” 

“ That is merely an evasion of the question,” said 
Girdon. “ Do you think that you have a right to offer 
your hand to one woman and reserve your heart for 
another, without mention to the woman of your choice 
of such a reservation ? Is that to be your wedding-gift 
to an estimable lady? Will she be the gainer by such 
a possession ? and yet you intend to do it only as a 
matter of honor !” 

This speech produced a marked effect upon Harold. 

“As I remember Miss Laycourt and from what I 
have heard of her, I know she is a lady whom it is not 
difficult to like; and, as for love, my secret remains 
with you and me.” 

“A secret of that character is not what I understand 


268 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


to contribute to a happy marriage,” said Roger. “ Aside 
from sentiment and nonsense, I believe that a wife is 
entitled to her husband’s undivided affection from the 
outset of their married lives so long as she is able to 
retain it. I do not doubt that you will try to love her ; 
but the occasion for the effort indicates its probable 
failure. How can you, though all others could, make 
the attempt, with your heart already traitorous to its 
task? I love — yes, that is true; I shall tell you all 
about it in due course of time — and I know that love 
cannot be transferred like votes. How do you know 
that Miss Laycourt would accept you under such condi- 
tions ?” 

“ I must imply her consent from the absence of a re- 
fusal,” replied Harold, slowly and thoughtfully. 

“That is not a fair illation from the premises. She 
is a young, inexperienced girl, who probably has pic- 
tured you according to a young girl’s fancy, and enter- 
tains no doubt but you love her to distraction. To her 
the situation is exciting and romantic.” 

“ Roger, I shall put the question to her,” said Harold, 
rising from his seat and pacing the floor. 

“ That is your only proper course.” 

“It is a fact,” continued Harold, “that the thoughts 
which you have suggested have often forced themselves 
upon my mind, importuning it for admittance; and it 
required most determined efforts to exclude them.” 

“ I can readily understand that. When a man is in- 
clined to do a virtuous deed, he naturally turns to sacri- 
fice and avoids his own advantage. But in this instance 
duty joins with selfishness, and right cannot be forsaken 
for securing an advantage for its adherents. Moreover, 
there are other potent matters to be considered in con- 
nection with this subject. Shall I be candid? You 
marvel at the circumstance that Miss Laycourt has not 
asked to be released. Can you ascribe her failure to do 
so to any motive other than the one which has kept 
you silent until now, combined with the natural reluc- 
tance of a refined woman to break an engagement? 
Again, you yourself have never proposed to her, and 
have not, therefore, given her any opportunity to reject 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


269 


you, — a privilege of which she would doubtless avail 
herself with pleasure. It is certainly unreasonable to 
think that she loves you now, not having seen you 
since she was a child ; and common experience renders 
it probable that she is at present an unwilling bride. 
I believe that, should you write her a letter portraying 
matters in their real aspect, she would hail the missive 
as an opportune deliverance.” 

“ Had I not better wait and speak to her about it ?” 

“ Ho, I do not think that that will do. If you ask 
to be released for the first time after seeing her, you 
lend occasion to the inference that she does not meet 
your expectations ; while if you write now, not having 
seen her since her childhood nor having had any oppor- 
tunity to judge her merits, your action will obviously 
be based upon circumstances independent of her own 
deserts. Thus, your course will be truly presented. 
I know that, for a letter, it is a subject more delicate 
than inspiring ; but entrance is usually more graceful 
than exit.” 

Harold once more arose. His face bore a determined 
expression. 

“ Roger, you are right. Your methods are bad, but 
your ideas are good. I shall write her a letter, re- 
vealing my feelings, and, if she will not accept me, that 
result will justify my course. If she accept me, I shall 
do all in my power to promote her happiness, and, to 
that end, her own merits will most effectively contrib- 
ute. Several times recently, I nearly approached this 
conclusion, but I would not grasp it ; for, while with 
you it is the product of reason, to me it appeared to 
be the bribery of passion ; for who will not suspect the 
lamb when the wolf pleads its cause ?” 

“Yes, weakness added to strength produces weak- 
ness, and inefficient aid increases labor. Most true is 
it, an impotent friend is a powerful enemy.” 

In this strain, they conversed some time. 

“ How tell me the story of your love,” said Harold. 
“ I am very anxious to hear it, the more so because I 
thought you designed to remain a bachelor.” 

“ There you were not mistaken. That was my inten- 
23 * 


270 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


tion, and I adhered to it with a strong, honest resolu- 
tion until circumstances claimed a partnership in my 
affairs and demonstrated that their past silence was 
ascribable to no lack of influence.” 

“ Your experience is quite common. Those who re- 
solve much usually perform little. It is a wise rule : 
form few resolutions and give them no expression. 
Now tell me your story.” 

“ Not now ; it is a lengthy story and requires more 
time than we can at present devote to it. I will tell 
you the essence to-morrow, and the body at another 
time. Is it not a trifle singular that we had to cross 
the ocean to discover here what any school-boy might 
have told us ?” 

“ You have reference to our plan concerning Miss 
Laycourt ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Not at all. Children can anticipate much that we 
discover, because they draw hasty conclusions ; but it 
is safer to gain the opposite bank by a circuit than to 
cross an unknown stream, however shallow. True, wo 
might have determined all this in our own country ; 
but I could have executed nothing then. I required 
time to regain proper control over my thoughts and 
feelings, without which anything done would have been 
unsatisfactory.” 

After more conversation, they retired. 

Next morning, Harold, seatedin his own apartments, 
proceeded to compose his letter. He fully appreciated 
the delicacy of his task ; for, if there was a single in- 
tention which took precedence of all others in his mind, 
it was to avoid indifference and affront to the lady 
pledged to become his wife. After devoting much 
time and thought to his task, he indited the letter fol- 
lowing : 

“ Rome, August 10, 18 — . 

“ Miss Bertha Laycourt : 

“Dear and esteemed Friend, — Relying upon the 
nature of my communication and your own generosity 
for indulgence, I take the liberty to address you in 
person on a subject involving our highest interests and 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


271 


future welfare. A knowledge of the responsibility al- 
ready assumed by me in connection with your future 
impels me to write with perfect freedom and candor. 

“ Conscious of the honor conferred upon me by the 
promise of your hand in marriage, I were still less 
worthy of so high a gift did I withhold from you any 
knowledge relating to my sacred trust. 

“ After leaving you, my ambition was directed to a 
single aim, to render myself worthy of the favor prom- 
ised me by fortune. That has been and will be my 
guiding motive. But before asserting a claim which, 
until recognized by you, would be presumptuous, I 
would learn the state of your feelings, and, towards 
that end, I first reveal my own. In soliciting your 
approval of our former guardians’ compact, I offer you 
my hand, my enduring friendship and respect, my 
ceaseless efforts to secure your happiness. This is all 
that it is within my power to give. Will you do me 
the honor to become my wife ? 

“With the utmost consideration, I subscribe myself, 
“ Your sincere friend, 

“ Harold Berwood.” 

This letter he read and reread to his friend ; and, 
after retaining it several hours, he sent it on its mis- 
sion. 

“ You have nothing particular to detain you here at 
present ?” queried Boger Girdon. 

“ Ho.” 

“ Then come with me ; I have some matters to ar- 
range at Constantinople; and, as my business will con- 
sume less than half a day, we will have ample time to 
devote to a survey of our surroundings, and will prob- 
ably not deem the time passed in that vicinity to be 
thrown away. Thence, we will proceed to London, 
where we will await Miss Laycourt’s reply.” 

Upon the execution of this programme, they pro- 
ceeded. 


272 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

The day upon which Bertha obtained, from her 
grandfather, the promise which she hoped would lead 
to a reconciliation between her relatives was an event- 
ful one to her. 

The meeting now imminent monopolized her atten- 
tion, to the exclusion of all other subjects; and, as to 
any influence exerted by her engagement, she might 
as well have been unengaged. 

But the matter was not thus to be neglected. Among 
the papers brought by the postman, was a letter which 
Mr. Laycourt handed to Bertha. It was addressed to 
her in the handwriting of a gentleman whose penman- 
ship had evidently not been neglected. She was sur- 
prised. It was the first letter ever received by her from 
any gentleman other than her grandfather ; and, with- 
out disturbing the seal, she returned it to him, who 
read the letter written by Harold Berwood. Having 
read it carefully, after some moments given to medita- 
tion, he handed the letter to Bertha, who first looked 
at the signature and blushed deeply at sight of it. 

“Read it carefully, Bertha; I shall return to you 
soon,” said Mr. Laycourt, and left the room, to afford 
her a proper opportunity to act upon his recommenda- 
tion. 

Bertha read the letter eagerly ; and, having read, 
experienced a strong feeling of relief. Then she reread 
it several times very carefully, to assure herself that 
she had not in any respect misconstrued its words. 
To her, the letter was nothing else than it purported 
to be, the frank disclosure of one from whom she had 
a right to expect frankness. Here was an occasion and 
a justification for a course based upon her wishes. 
The letter furnished her a means of extrication from 
a position tolerated by her only in observance of her 
grandfather’s wish. This was the thought that ob- 
tained precedence in her mind: and her feelings of 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


273 


gratitude to Harold exaggerated Roger Girdon’s pre- 
dictions. How the letter, calling for a return of con- 
fidence, would receive it. 

“ What reply shall I make to this letter, grandpapa ?” 
she inquired, as he re-entered the room after a brief 
absence. 

“ Whatever you will, my child.” 

Bertha sped to her apartments and composed the 
reply following : 

New York, August — , 18 — . 

“ Dear Sir, — Your letter was duly received, and I 
am grateful for the kind expressions contained in it. 
Candor and truth meriting a like return, I shall speak 
with equal frankness, in the belief that our thoughts 
and wishes in this matter are in accord. 

“ With the present state of our feelings, described 
fully by yourself, it is not certain that an execution of 
the compact made for us will result in our happiness ; 
and that being the end which our relatives sought to 
attain, we have no right, even were we so disposed, to 
use the means employed for another purpose. 

“ I do indeed appreciate highly the honor conferred 
upon me, and which I must decline. 

“ Reciprocating your kind feelings, I continue to be, 
“ Truly, your friend, 

“Bertha Laycourt. 

“ To Harold Berwood, Esq” 

This letter, having received Mr. Laycourt’ s approval, 
was superscribed to Harold at the address given upon 
a slip enclosed in his letter. 

Bertha was elated. Harold’s letter was so entirely 
conformable to her wishes as to render impossible the 
harboring of any resentment. More than that, she 
commended his course, and, in conversation with her 
grandfather, plainly manifested her relief. 

“ I did not believe that you loved him,” said he, “ but 
I had no idea that your engagement was so displeasing 
to you as it seems to have been.” 

“ Hot displeasing,” said Bertha, “ it was pleasing, but 
it is more pleasing now.” 


274 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


“ I think I comprehend the basis of your compari- 
son,” returned Mr. Laycourt. 

A great load had been lifted from her mind. Now 
nothing remained to harass her save the reflection that 
her father was still ignorant of the reconciliation to be 
effected on the morrow, and she was possessed of a 
burning impatience to see him. Now she would have 
more news to tell him ; and then, for the first time, it 
occurred to her that, in informing him upon her past 
life, she had forgotten to mention her engagement. 

That evening, they had a visitor, Mr. Berwood, who 
called not infrequently, and at all times devoted his 
attention first to Bertha, whom he usually addressed 
as Mrs. Berwood. Bertha, receiving that title for a 
time with much embarrassment and many protests, 
became so accustomed to it that, when upon this occa- 
sion he did not employ it, she felt that he must know 
all, and dropped her eyes beneath his keen survey. 

The gentlemen repaired to the smoking-room, where 
they seated themselves and lit cigars. 

“ Have you received any letter from Harold ?” in- 
quired the visitor. 

“Not personally, but Bertha has, and has already 
replied to it. She will, no doubt, show you the letter, 
and, if she can, her own reply. I can give you the 
substance.” 

“ No need. I know it. I have a letter in which he 
informed me of his design. He declared his intention 
to lay the whole matter before Bertha and let her de- 
cide, and that, I presume, he has done.” 

“ Yes, and her reply sunders the relation established 
by us between them. She could have returned no 
different answer.” 

“ I don’t suppose she could, but I wish she had,” 
was the response. “ I wish he had come to me first. 
How can he know what he has done ? But that is 
not the question with us. We must determine what 
to do. We must not let a boy’s romantic folly and 
a young girl’s pride stand between them and their in- 
terests.” 

“ No, but I think you misunderstand them. You 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


275 


know well, it was my earnest desire that they be 
united, and that is still my wish; but I think it is 
something more than boyish folly that prompts his 
letter. In fact, I have no doubt, he has found some 
woman whom he loves. His letter supports no other 
reasonable construction.” 

This supposition struck Mr. Berwood with more 
force than pleasure. To his host, it was clear that the 
possibility presented was by no means inspiring. 

“ But that I mention only as an inference, concern- 
ing which I have no positive knowledge,” continued 
Mr. Lay court. “ As to the matter upon which I have 
knowledge, I can speak with more assurance. I know 
that Bertha’s reply was made in no spirit of wounded 
pride, and was not enforced alone by a scrupulous 
modesty. It was the fruit of a wish no longer re- 
strained by a sense of duty. I think it was only her 
desire to please us that enabled this engagement to 
subsist until now. I regret that these are the circum- 
stances, but am convinced that they are.” 

“ Then all our plans were without end or effect?” 

“ I do not think so. Our chief purpose is accom- 
plished. It was for their protection against adven- 
turers ; and certainly, if there was ever a necessity 
for that precaution, time has obviated it. How, when 
they have sufficient discretion to choose, experience 
teaches that it is wise to let them make a choice, to 
receive our sanction, if we can approve. Though they 
may be unable to follow our wishes, they certainly 
will not proceed against them.” 

“I admit, I do not take such a philosophical view of 
it as you do,” said Mr. Berwood. “ I had set my heart 
upon the marriage, in every respect so desirable. But 
I do not renounce hope. He will soon return ; and ob- 
serving Bertha, he will conclude that a man, however 
young, is not infallible, and that even an old head may 
at times be right. And, as for Bertha, is it possible 
for her to be indifferent towards any one who loves 
her? I think, after all, this is a fortunate event ; for 
it will restore him to his home and senses and will have 
no other effect.” 


276 


BERTHA LAYCOTJRT. 


“You may be right; it does not appear to be im- 
probable.” 

“ Improbable ? It is a certain result. In fact, I 
think you will find this condition that now appears in 
the form of a breach to be a firm cement. It only de- 
layed our purpose. They will now be relieved of the 
necessity to love each other as a mere matter of duty, 
and their positions will appeal to their romantic 
notions, which will now aid, rather than hinder, our 
purpose.” 

“Nothing could please me better,” said Mr. Lay- 
court. 

“ Leave it to me,” said his visitor. “ I shall write 
to Harold to-night and shall request his immediate re- 
turn, after which, the result will be assured ; for it is 
improbable that either will find in the other any trait 
of character or disposition liable to produce enduring 
enmity.” 

They continued to converse some time ; then, well 
satisfied with the result of their colloquy, they re- 
turned to the library, in which was Bertha. This 
time she did not evade the glance of Mr. Berwood; 
for there was in the manner of either gentleman noth- 
ing to indicate the transpirement of aught unpleasant. 

“Well, Mrs. Berwood,” said the visitor, “your 
grandfather tells me that you are unwilling to re- 
nounce his name in favor of mine. I suppose a re- 
scission is out of the question ?” 

Bertha, gratified to find him in manner as friendly 
as before, only smiled in reply. 

“ Well, we will see,” he said, and took his leave. 

Bertha glanced inquiringly at Mr. Laycourt. 

“ Yes, he knows all,” he said. “ I informed him 
upon the contents of both letters. He is, of course, 
opposed to the breach, which will not, however, affect 
our relations with himself.” 

Bertha was pleased by this information. Yet she 
was perplexed by the state of affairs. She had not 
expected Mr. Berwood, who usually treated her as 
though she were already a member of his family, to 
regard the breach of her engagement with as much 


BERTHA LAYCOURfT. 


277 


cheerfulness as was evinced by him ; and she would 
have been pained by his apparent indifference had 
not her grandfather’s words and manner reassured 
her. 

Thus closed the second day so eventful in the life of 
Bertha ; and she retired, to pass a night of pleasant 
repose, in anticipation of the morrow. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

“Shall I tell you of what you are thinking?” in- 
quired Roger Girdon, as he and Harold were riding, at 
a great rate of speed, across the Continent to their 
destination. 

“Yes, if you have any more recent information about 
it than I have.” 

Notwithstanding this invitation to speak, Roger re- 
mained silent for some time, during which Harold 
looked at him expectantly. 

“ Perhaps we will save time if you, for a brief period, 
resign your position as an oracle, and allow me to be 
the informant. I was wondering what sort of young 
lady is she whom you claim to love and who, as I 
infer, is willing to be loved by you.” 

“ I may as well tell you the whole story now, because 
the way it will be told by others will place me in a no 
more favorable light. At the time we returned to 
America two months ago, you know well that marriage 
was as remote from my mind as suicide, and that the 
two were liable to be, if at all, simultaneous events, 
arising from the same causes and with the same dire 
results. But I was indiscreet. A plan, to succeed, 
requires secrecy no less than purpose. In telling my 
old chum, Sam Pell, of my design to avoid women, I 
took effectual means to insure their presence and frus- 
trate my plan. I thought that nothing could shake my 
resolution, and nothing did until then. One day, after 
our return to New York, I accepted an invitation to 

24 


278 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


accompany a party on an excursion. Sam, by the way, 
was one of the number. Among them was also a 
young girl, a little witch of scarcely seventeen, who 
was introduced as Miss Bessie Harnold. I heard her 
inquire in a whisper of Sam if I were the Mr. Girdon 
who had just returned from a European college, and 
saw Sam nod assent. I had not known before then 
that that was any special disqualification, but I became 
fully convinced at that time that it was. The young 
girl turned away at the first opportune moment, with 
an indifference more apparent than complimentary. 
I observed her. I was not interested half so much in 
her generally as particularly in her manner ; for her 
aversion to college students did not appear to extend 
beyond myself, though there were present others whom 
somehow I would have gladly seen included. When- 
ever I encountered her eyes, they sparkled with pro- 
voking mirth. She appeared to penetrate my thoughts 
and to mock me ; but no sooner did she catch my 
glance than she quickly looked in the opposite direc- 
tion ; and, with a view to new discoveries, scrutinized 
the realms of space. Several times, I determined to 
drop the matter and give her no further thought; but 
that design conformed so admirably to her wishes as to 
have rendered the act deferential to them, and I did 
not think her conduct to merit this courtesy. 

“ Our programme was fully outlined, and it became 
incumbent upon us to select our partners. Malicious 
chance, to which we left the determination, cast to my 
lot my little torment. To claim her, I had to search 
for her as assiduously as we seek our better fortune, 
and at length discovered her about as far away as she 
could reasonably have got. She looked at my proffered 
arm hesitatingly a few moments before accepting it, 
but eventually concluded to do it. At the same time, 
she turned away, to conceal her roguish eyes. Our 
silence could not endure forever. My first question 
startled her. 

“ ‘ Why do you avoid me ?’ I inquired. 

“ ‘ Did I do anything so rude ?’ 

“‘Yes.’ 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


279 


“ 1 Mr. Girdon !’ 

“ ‘ In what manner can I serve you ?’ 

“ £ You can leave me, if you please.’ 

“ ‘ Very well, though I suppose nothing will be lost 
by delay.’ 

“ ‘ Then you have resolved to remain ?’ 

“ ‘ For the present.’ 

“ ‘ I do so much admire strength of resolution,’ she 
said, with unmistakable significance, which left no 
doubt concerning the subject of her allusion. 

“ 1 Thank you. Your opinion is the more gratifying 
because applying to my past, as well as present, re- 
solves. But how did you learn of my resolution ?’ 

“ ‘ Mr. Girdon, you are going very far.’ 

“ ‘ True, but not yet far enough, it seems, to ac- 
complish my purpose. How did you learn of my reso- 
lution ?’ 

“ ‘ Hot from your actions, because, you will admit, 
they furnish no clue to it.’ 

“ The idea struck me rather forcibly, and I remained 
silent for a moment. 

“ ‘ I understand. You have been conversing about 
me with my obliging friend, Mr. Pell.’ 

“ ‘ Ho, sir, Mr. Pell is a pleasing conversationalist.’ 

“ 1 So I inferred from his frequent reference to you. 
Will you inform me now upon what I want to know ?’ 

‘ If I do, will you let me alone ?’ 

“ ‘ Ho, no ; let not that fear deter you ; you can 
safely answer.’ 

“ She dropped my arm, and, turning about, looked at 
me in silent scorn. I bore her inspection a time, then, 
replacing her hand in my arm, I walked onward. She 
remained silent. 

“ ‘ Have I offended you ?’ 

“ c You have,’ she decided, deliberately. 

“ ‘ Pardon me, my curiosity.’ 

“ ‘ Certainly. Curiosity is a weakness quite general 
among men, and one which women must learn to for- 
give.’ 

“We had more conversation, unimportant in itself 
and which I cannot now recall. I had accomplished 


280 


BERTHA LAY COURT 


something, though not at all in furtherance of my reso- 
lution ; she no longer avoided me. You will think it 
simple of me to have sought for her company again ; 
but so it was, without respect to my determination ; 
that had deserted me with the suddenness with which 
a politician leaves a defeated party. I did all that 
could be reasonably expected of me. I summoned to 
my aid my resolution, but in vain did I appeal to that 
traitor; and alone I fought for freedom. It soothes 
the sting of defeat to acknowledge with grace the con- 
queror’s victory. The time I saw you at N was a 

time of truce. I had not yet surrendered ; but returned, 
not without valor, to the engagement, — but I have an- 
ticipated the result.” 

“ You are then engaged ?” inquired Harold. 

Slowly and pensively, Girdon shook his head. 

“ Let mo commiserate you in your misfortune, which 
appears to weigh on you very heavily.” And Harold, 
grasping the hand of his friend, made an appropriate 
tender of good wishes. 

“ The result was not so easily attained as told,” said 
Girdon. “ Even after I had concluded to take the fatal 
step, I still encountered impediments ; for Bessie, listen- 
ing to my avowal in silence, waited until I asked her 
the vital question : ‘ Bessie, will you be my wife ?’ 

“ ‘ Ho,’ she then answered, turning her mischievous 
eyes upon me. 

“‘ Yery well,’ I said, ‘that is all I desire to know. 
I thank you for the patience with which you have lis- 
tened to me. Adieu, I leave you.’ 

“ Bessie bowed. 

“‘You are so considerate!’ she said, — ‘too con- 
siderate, one would *think, to have made me such an 
offer.’ 

“ ‘ I but yielded to the force of habit ; for I came to 
you only after being refused a full score of times.’ 

“ ‘ Indeed ! then you are well prepared for the fu- 
ture.’ 

“ ‘ Yes, disappointment is my generous friend. But 
do not expect me to destroy myself, Bessie, for I am 
just beginning to enter upon the full enjoyment of my 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 281 

life. I shall at once construct a castle; to which I shall 
take my wife ’ 

“ ‘ You will have to find her there already, and be 
careful to give her no opportunity to escape,’ said Bessie. 

“ This was our conversation ; but all this time, I held 
my Bessie’s hands, and six months from now she will 
be no longer Bessie Harnold.” 

In the course of their journey, [Roger related many 
other incidents relating to his subject. 

They arrived at Constantinople, where Roger trans- 
acted the business which had brought them thither ; 
and, after remaining nearly three weeks in Turkey and 
the neighboring countries, they repaired to London. 

During his travels, Harold studied with much atten- 
tion the countries through which he passed, and ob- 
served the governments, manners, and customs of their 
people. He devoted great care and all the skill of 
which he was master to a description of these and 
many scenes of grandeur and sublimity presented to 
his view, together with notes of interesting anecdotes 
and events. 

By means of his travels, he acquired, in addition to 
a wide experience, a knowledge of the languages which 
he had studied, and of which he now discovered the 
practical use and meaning, as well as the rules and 
theories. 

His descriptions now covered a large number of pages, 
sufficient, it appeared to him, to comprise a volume, if 
published ; but he had written them with no view to 
their publication. Notwithstanding this fact, the oc- 
cupation was in itself so great a source of pleasure to 
him, that, added to his desire to adopt a permanent 
vocation, it impelled him to make the attempt to 
which his ambition urged him. He resolved to devote 
his time and powers to the production of books of 
travel, if his ability should prove adequate to his de- 
sign; and his friend G-irdon heartily commended the 
project. 

Determined to act upon this resolve, he dismissed all 
other thoughts pertaining to an occupation, and his 
mind underwent a great relief; for he was not the 
24 * 


282 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


man to rest content with what accident, unaided by 
his own efforts and deserts, would secure for him. 

Eventually, they arrived in London. 

“ The day after to-morrow, you will have your an- 
swer from Miss Laycourt,” predicted G-irdon. 

“ Upon what basis do you make that calculation ?” 

“ I figure the time necessary for the conveyance of 
your letter and the reply, allow Miss Laycourt one day 
for reflection. — although we can safely anticipate her 
answer, — and add a day of grace for a delay which, 
though always unexpectable, generally occurs.” 

“Your method is fatal to error,” said Harold; and 
so it developed not to be ; for, before the close of that 
day, Bertha’s letter arrived. When it was actually 
placed into his hands, it is not surprisable that his 
pulse quickened. 

“ Whatever else may be said, we cannot charge the 
lady with much delay,” said Girdon. 

Harold held up the envelope, still sealed. 

“ Can you guess,” he said, “ what this contains ? can 
you realize its weighty import to me? Look at it. 
Can this neat envelope contain aught but joyful news ? 
Yes. Beauty and merit, though congenial companions, 
meet seldom. Many poisonous buds allure the sight.” 

Without further speech, he broke the seal and read 
Bertha’s letter. At times, he paused, but did not take 
his glance from the paper. Hot until his perusal was 
concluded did he look up. 

“ Roger, it is well,” he said. “ Read that.” 

Roger read the letter hastily, then slowly reread it. 

“I congratulate you upon your success,” said he. 
“You have obtained your liberty, though, according to 
my information, not without paying for it.” 

“Acquaintance with her would confirm that opinion ; 
but for me there is only one. Can you change the 
workings of your mind, the throbbings of your heart? 
Is it not better as it is? I have my freedom ; and she 
is no longer bound to me, and can make happy one 
who can give her the love merited by her.” 

“ You have had much trouble that could have been 
averted ; for see the ease and rapidity with which this 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


283 


matter was accomplished ; and, it is evident, both of 
you feel relieved. Promptness is ever beneficial, and 
delay protracts care.” 

“Very true, but again, the plan which fails to-day 
succeeds to-morrow. I am delighted with the present 
state of affairs. Not only am I free to go and — pur- 
sue my will, but I can meet Miss Laycourt now without 
restraint and solicit her friendship. She understands 
me fully, as you may perceive, and appears to be too 
happy to have done with me to bear me aught but 
friendship for the act which secured to her her freedom.” 

They conversed at great length upon the subject, 
then went forth for a stroll. 

“You wrote to your father concerning this matter?” 
inquired Girdon. 

“ Yes, and I am now expecting a reply from him. No 
doubt, he will be very much displeased, and I regret 
to disappoint him ; for he has shielded me from many 
disappointments. But I shall lay both letters before 
him, Miss Laycourt’ s and my own.” 

When they returned to the hotel, another letter was 
in waiting for Harold. It was from his father, and had 
come upon the same ship which had brought Bertha’s 
letter. Hastily breaking the seal, he read it aloud to 
his companion. Besides the formal parts, these were 
the contents : 

“As you are by this time aware, my heart was set 
upon this marriage, and your present purpose could not 
avoid my disappointment. Having, however, carefully 
considered the matter in view of your repeated assur- 
ances and expressions, I must commend your course, 
and whatever measures you may adopt will meet my 
approbation. Probably no step beyond the one already 
taken by you will be requisite ; for, let me assure you, 
Bertha is not restricted in the exercise of her choice, 
without dispensing with the love that you deem so im- 
portant to a happy marriage. I do not ask you to 
marry any one whom you do not want to love. That 
were an unreasonable request. All that I require is 
that you be as careful and as fortunate in your choice 
as I was in the one I made for you. 


284 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


“ 1 have just seen Bertha and her grandfather, and 
have learned the contents of her reply to you. Neither 
of them entertains anger or resentment; and, I must 
admit, they regard the present status with more phi- 
losophy than regret ; but this episode will in no event 
impair the friendly relations so long maintained be- 
tween our families. I have no doubt but, after your 
return, you will regret your action, and I hope that it 
will not be too late, — the period at which regret 
usually makes its advent. The matter is now entirely 
in your hands, and, if there is any duty which' you 
may think to owe me in this connection, I freely 
absolve you from it. There is now nothing to delay 
your return.” 

“ Could anything be more satisfactory ?” queried 
Harold. 

“ You certainly have no just cause of complaint with 
the letter,” replied Girdon. 

“ It removes all doubts from my mind and all im- 
pediments from my path. It is like my father, who 
has never been a moment behind occasion to gratify 
my wish. He is right ; there is now nothing to delay 
my immediate return. No moment is too soon for me ; 
my wishes are already on the opposite shore, whither 
I shall at once follow them. Are you ready ?” 

“We can secure passage on the ship that leaves to- 
morrow, if that afford you time to make your prepara- 
tions,” said Boger. 

“"Very well, let us go. Do not, however, let me 
hasten you unduly. You said you had some purchases 
to make, some things for Miss Bessie. Let us first 
attend to them.” 

Next morning, having made their purchases and 
preparations, they went aboard the vessel and were 
once more upon their homeward voyage. 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


285 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

“ I remember some time ago to have heard, from a no 
less authority than yourself, that all women are alike ; 
and your statement was made with so much positive- 
ness as to carry with it the force of conviction. Will 
you, therefore, explain to me fully, that I may com- 
prehend, the causes which lead you to fly from one 
woman, with wings of rapture, to another woman, — 
thus returning, according to your irrefutable theory, 
to the object from which you fly ?” 

This question was addressed by Roger Girdon to his 
friend, after both had been seated some time upon the 
deck in revery. Harold glanced at the questioner, and 
found him eying the deck with a very thoughtful air. 

“ I shall be very glad to explain it at an early oppor- 
tunity,” replied Harold. 

“ Is this one too remote to serve you ? Delay is 
the graveyard of enterprise. Have women changed in 
nature since that time ?” 

“ It illustrates forcibly the value of theoretical, un- 
aided by practical, knowledge. Let me cite another 
instance. Some students once appealed to their in- 
structor, who professed a knowledge of arboriculture, 
to decide upon the nature of a tree, one claiming it to 
be a fir and the other pronouncing it a pine. The 
scientist, who had written volumes upon trees but had 
never seen more than a dislocated branch, decided 
against the claim of either. ‘I have studied much 
upon the subject/ he said, ‘ and I have come to the 
conclusion that a tree is a tree. I recognize no essen- 
tial difference, and have concluded that they are all 
alike.’ The students were satisfied; but the master 
entertained serious doubts concerning the absolute cor- 
rectness of his opinion, and visited a forester, who 
indicated to him the various species by names and 
properties. Some time afterwards, the master, accom- 
panied by his students, rambled in silence through the 


286 


BERTHA LAY COURT 


forest, until at length, no longer able to tolerate their 
many blunders and misnomers, he explained to them 
the differences existing. ‘ But, professor,’ they in- 
quired, ‘you told us recently that all trees are alike. 
Have they since that time changed character ?’ ‘ Ho,’ 

replied the professor, ‘ but that was before I had seen 
a tree.’ As we are upon the subject, however, I recall 
a certain resolution once formed by you, I think, and 
having reference to the same subject. What have you 
done with that ?” 

“ Treasured it up as a relic of the past,” replied 
Eoger. “ I like an opinion, as I like the vernal spring; 
but seasons take their turns, you know, and cannot 
abide with us forever.” 

“ To explain an inconsistency is embarrassing, but 
to adhere to one doubly so,” said Harold. “ It is folly 
to cling to an erroneous opinion, however good may 
have been our reasons for once entertaining it. Who 
will remain upon a sinking vessel because it has ren- 
dered useful service in the past ? 

“ Eoger,” said he, after a moment, “ when reflecting 
upon the present situation of affairs, I have been led to 
wonder at some circumstances which appear to me to 
be rather singular. Formerly my father, and, I am 
informed, Mr. Laycourt, were firmly bent upon my 
marriage to Miss Bertha, and she herself manifested 
no opposition. How, all seize upon the first opportu- 
nity to prevent the marriage, and with very unflatter- 
ing alacrity. At least, that is the impression to which 
a general consideration of the subject has led me.” 

“ I see nothing singular in it,” replied Eoger. “ From 
your father’s letter, it appears that he was at Mr. Lay- 
court’s home and that they exchanged views upon the 
subject at the time Miss Laycourt wrote her answer. 
Ho doubt, they considered the question in all its bear- 
ings, entertained identical views, and adopted a common 
conclusion.” 

“ They did not allot much time to thought of any 
nature ; the young lady must have written her reply 
immediately after the receipt of my letter, judging by 
the time it reached me.” 


BERTHA LAY COURT \ 


287 


u She is too good to have kept you in suspense.” 

“ That may be your construction of it; but, if I am 
not mistaken, her action was impelled not by a con- 
sideration of myself so much as by an utter lack of 
consideration for me. Well, I have no right to com- 
plain ; but, when you pull with vigor at one end of a 
rope and the other is suddenly released, the result is 
somewhat startling.” 

“ Do you permit these subordinate matters to worry 
you at this time ?” 

“No, not specially; but the reflection occurred to me 
once or twice, and 1 shall endeavor to obtain a full 
elucidation after our arrival. I know that my father, 
to have abandoned in a moment the design of years, 
must have been actuated by strong motives.” 

“ It would appear so,” said Roger, “ but your own 
letter furnished a motive than which there can be none 
stronger.” 

“ Yes ; when I reason upon the probable causes 
which inspired each, the result seems natural.” 

A large portion of the time during their voyage was 
thus spent in conversation between themselves and 
with their fellow-passengers. When Harold was alone, 
his mind was upon another subject. 

Would he find Lucy? Undoubtedly, if ceaseless ef- 
fort would prevail. He knew that she resided at New 
York, that the summer season was over, and that she 
had probably returned to her home. But, during the 
time of his absence, which seemed to him a lengthy 
interval, what could not have happened ? 

Another source of apprehension was the possibility 
that she was already engaged. This fear troubled him 
but little ; for, after an uncordial reception of a moment, 
it was dismissed. 

But, finding her, for what could he then hope ? Was 
it possible that the gratification thus far of his wishes 
would be surmounted by the crown of all his hopes ? 
Now there presented itself to him the important ques- 
tion : did she reciprocate, to any extent, his love ? 

At the time of their parting, the thought that she 
did not regard him with indifference had taken root 


288 


BERTHA LAY COURT 


within him, and immediately succeeding that time he 
had dwelt upon her words and acts, in efforts to con- 
firm what now he thought might have been but a pleas- 
ing delusion. But, at this lapse of time, he was less 
sanguine. 

He had told her that she might never see him again. 
Had she manifested any emotion other than a friendly 
regret and a spontaneous sympathy with his sorrow, 
— a sympathy which she could have withheld from 
none? 

He abandoned unreasonable hope and vague fear. 
His reason presented no rational grounds for a definite 
conclusion, and he resolved to leave the matter to the 
arbitrament of the future. 

On a warm day in the fore part of September, they 
arrived at Hew York, where Harold was met by his 
father, whom he had not seen since their meeting in 
Europe. Soon after landing, they entered Mr. Ber- 
wood’s carriage and were driven to his home. 

While driving thither, not a word was said about 
Harold’s failure to visit his home when last before in 
America nor upon the broken engagement. The con- 
versation was confined solely to the present state and 
past experiences personal to Harold. 

It was with a feeling of great satisfaction that Harold 
now stepped upon the American shore. Home had 
never been so dear to him. 

After a lengthy conversation and partaking of re- 
freshments, Roger took his leave. 

“ To-morrow, if you please, I shall go with you 
there,” said Harold, divining Roger’s destination. 

Mr. Berwood conducted his son into the library and 
closed the door. 

“ How let us have a talk,” he said. 

“ I know to what you have reference,” said Harold : 
“ it is about my former engagement ?” 

“ Right ; you have at length succeeded to break it. 
How what will you do?” 

“ That I could readily answer, did it depend only 
upon my own will.” 

“ Aha 1 upon whose will does it depend ?” 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


289 


“ Father, let me tell you the whole story.” 

Frankly and ingenuously, Harold now related to his 
father the history of his former visit, his meeting with 
Lucy Berrill, the state of his feelings towards her, and 
the merits by which he had been attracted. Without 
going into the details of his various meetings with her, 
he conveyed to his father a thorough understanding 
of his situation. He proceeded to narrate the causes 
leading to his abrupt departure, and concealed nothing 
requisite to a full comprehension of the matter. 

“ Who is Lucy Berrill?” inquired Mr. Berwood. 

“ The most ” 

“ Yes, I inferred all that,” said Mr. Berwood, “ but 
who is she ? Who and what is the head of her family ? 
Who are the various members ?” 

“ Her family is, I think, in every respect the peer of 
our own.” 

“ I do not know about that,” returned Mr. Berwood. 
“ The name Berrill is not familiar to me.” 

“ That may be ; but, you know, this is a very large 
and populous community.” 

“ Space is boundless, yet the sun is never lost.” 

“You probably know the family, and the name 
eludes your present recollection,” said Harold. “Ho 
not be uneasy about that matter. I remember to have 
heard that Miss Berrill is an heiress of no ordinary ex- 
pectations, and I could have discovered more in that 
connection had the matter presented any interest to 
me. You need entertain no apprehensions, for they are 
groundless. I know your requirements, acknowledge 
their justness, and will conform to them.” 

“ I have full confidence in you. But, Harold, be in 
no haste. If you are right, you will be just as right 
to-morrow as you are to-day ; but, if you are wrong, 
to-morrow may be too late, if you act to-day. Wait 
until you see Bertha ; you knew her only as a child ; 
wait until you see her. She is a woman of whom 
any man must be proud. If she were of unknown 
family and penniless, my judgment would favor her no 
less. I wish you would see her before you go to Miss 
Berrill.” 

n t 25 


290 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


“As you will, father. I shall call with you upon 
Miss Laycourt to-morrow.” 

“No, this evening.” 

“Very well, this evening let it be. But of what 
avail can it be ? Miss Laycourt does not love me.” 

“ There is no reason why she should. You must try 
to make her do it. There is no reason why she should 
not love you as well as any one else.” 

“But is that sufficient?” 

“ Yes ; more than you deserve.” 

“ But she has already rejected me.” 

“Never mind that. Women have been known to 
change their intentions, and this may be one of those 
rare instances. You have but to come with me, to give 
her that attention which you cannot withhold, and act 
upon your inclination.” 

Harold expressed his satisfaction with the plan out- 
lined, and the interview now found other channels. 

After tea, the two gentlemen were driven to Mr. 
Laycourt’s house, which Harold had not entered since 
his engagement. They were at once ushered into the 
presence of Mr. Laycourt, who shook Mr. Berwood’s 
hand, and, glancing first carelessly, then scrutinizingly, 
at Harold, recognized him, and welcomed him with 
cordiality. After exchanging several questions and 
answers, they seated themselves. 

“ I am all alone this evening,” said Mr. Laycourt. 

“ Where is Bertha ?” inquired Mr. Berwood. 

“She was taken away to-day by a friend, who will 
be married in a few days and with whom she will 
remain until Saturday the second day after the mor- 
row.” 

“ I am sorry, I desired very much to see her,” said 
Mr. Berwood ; and Harold, to a less extent, shared his 
disappointment, for the character of his reception by 
his father and Mr. Laycourt had removed effectually 
the constraint imposed by his former situation. 

A lengthy conversation now ensued among the three 
gentlemen, in the course of which Harold rendered Mr, 
Laycourt a full explanation of his conduct and its 
causes, and withheld only names. 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


291 


“ Under the circumstances, your course was such as 
I would have expected of you,” said Mr. Laycourt. 
“ It would have been injudicious to have consummated 
the marriage.” 

They spent the entire evening with Mr. Laycourt; 
and, having promised to call again on the third day 
thereafter, they left. 

Next morning, Mr. Berwood claimed Harold’s atten- 
tion for a time, and the remainder of the morning was 
devoted by Harold to investigations, purposed to dis- 
cover Lucy Berrill’s place of residence. Only two of the 
addresses found in the city directory and referring to a 
fashionable quarter seemed to him to be her possible 
abode, and in these two he found himself to be mis- 
taken. This was a difficulty which had not been an- 
ticipated by him, and which occasioned him some sur- 
prise. That Lucy was of high social standing, he did 
not doubt, and he concluded that either she had recently 
removed to New York, or had, since he had met her, 
removed from it. He desired to call upon Miss North- 
wood, and found her address without any difficulty. The 
evening was set apart by him for this visit. Meanwhile, 
Boger Girdon, in pursuance of Mr. Berwood’s invitation, 
took luncheon with Harold at his home, after which the 
two gentlemen called upon Miss Bessie Harnold. 

They walked up the avenues until they arrived at 
her home, which was very pretty, though compara- 
tively small. Being ushered into the parlor, they were 
met by a lovely little brunette, who was introduced 
by Boger to his friend as Miss Harnold, his betrothed 
wife. In conversation with the young lady and her 
mother, Harold passed an agreeable hour ; but, if he 
expected to hear between the young couple a dialogue 
such as the one repeated to him by Boger, he was dis- 
appointed. Not until Harold was interested in discus- 
sion with Mrs. Harnold did Boger, in a voice which 
the young girl alone could hear, say, — 

“ Bessie, I observe that all others whom you meet for 
the first time are treated courteously by you. Your 
conduct in avoiding me, therefore, when first we met, 
appears very singular to me.” 


292 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


“ And doubly so to me. Had I waited until I knew 
you better, my avoidance of you would doubtless ap- 
pear more natural to both of us.” 

“ So it would. But at that time, not knowing you 
so well as I do now, I could not appreciate the kind 
motive which inspired your act ; nor did I at once sus- 
pect that fate had sent you to me in punishment for 
my sins.” 

“ As such an instrument of fate, I certainly could 
have selected a no more appropriate object.” 

“ Again, true ; no one blames you for your choice, 
for, unfortunately for me, it was restricted to one 
victim. But do not allude again to our engagement, 
Bess ; I am very sensitive to reproach.” 

“You forget that I rejected you.” 

“ No ; it is not that which oppresses me ; but it re- 
calls the further fact that you revoked "your decision 
just in time, and now I am chained and helpless in the 
hands of a little tyrant, and too dispirited even to con- 
template escape.” 

“ Is that the meaning of men’s claims to love?” 

“ Permit me to correct an erroneous impression on 
your part. You will remember, I never told you that 
I loved you ; I merely asked you to be my wife.” 

“ True ; and you would not have made me that offer, 
had you loved me,” was her rejoinder. “ But you did 
like me when I avoided you, Mr. Girdon.” 

“ Mere gratitude, Bessie, not love.” 

“ Then why did you induce me to change my meth- 
ods, at my own sacrifice?” 

“ Because I then relinquished all hope of escape, 
and am now resigned to my fate. A prisoner, released, 
shuns the world more than his prison. Having vol- 
untarily surrendered myself, I disdain to ask for lib- 
erty.” 

“ Your prayer, if made, would be without avail ; for, 
under such circumstances, it would be cruel to release 
you.” 

Thus amicably did their sallies always end. Miss 
Harnold now divided her attention between her guests 
until their departure. 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


293 


In the evening, Harold started alone towards Mr. 
Northwood’s residence, situated at no great distance 
from his own home. He walked leisurely along, and, 
glancing carelessly at a passing phaeton, he thought 
he recognized in the lady seated in it Esther North- 
wood. The gentleman by whose side she was seated 
was not recognized by him. 

The lady did not observe him, and the vehicle moved 
quickly on, affording him no opportunity to verify his 
impression. He was disappointed. He had a strong 
desire to see her. He continued his course until he ar- 
rived at Mr. Northwood’s home. He rang the bell, 
which was answered by a servant who had been in the 

service of the family at N . Without ceremony, 

he ushered Harold into the drawing-room, at the same 
time stating that no one was then at home, but prom- 
ising the speedy return of the ladies. 

In the drawing-room, the doors of which were ajar 
when Harold approached them, lights were burning 
dimly, and not until he was fairly in the room, did he 
perceive the servant to have been mistaken. Before 
the window stood a young lady, who turned as the 
sound of his footsteps fell upon her ear. 

“I beg your pardon, madam ” 

Harold proceeded no further. In the young girl 
upon whom his glance now rested, he recognized Lucy 
Berrill, 

* * * * * * * 

The day after Bertha wrote to Harold the response 
which annulled their engagement, she arose, her hope- 
ful spirits restored. But not for long. 

Now she was filled with apprehension concerning 
the probable course of her parent. He had already 
declined to see his father ; would he adhere to that de- 
termination ? She was certain that he would act in 
compatibility with right ; but she could not decide what 
was right, inasmuch as she did not venture to judge 
between the two men whom she revered. She felt a 
powerlessness to act in the matter in which her in- 
fluence was paramount. 


25 * 


294 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


During the morning, their design received no men- 
tion from Bertha, who would utter no reminder ; and 
Mr. Laycourt, though he conversed pleasantly with 
her upon a variety of subjects, made no allusion to 
their projected visit until luncheon, when he inquired 
of her the hour at which she wished to start, and 
agreed to be in readiness. 

“ I promised to go with you,” he said, “ and we will 
go whenever you desire : but I do not yet know how 
to meet my son under the circumstances existing. I 
must let it depend upon his own wish and the manner 
in which be manifests it. But it requires no further 
assurance from me to convince you that upon your 
wishes I will base my earnest efforts.” 

In the afternoon, they drove together to the ceme- 
tery. They carried with them a beautiful wreath of 
flowers, for that day closed the nineteenth year since 
the death of Bertha’s mother. During the drive, both 
were silent. Bertha devoted her time to school herself 
in calmness, with admirable success ; for, by the time 
they reached their destination, she was self-possessed. 
Leaving the carriage at the usual place of waiting, 
they walked through the lane, Mr. Laycourt carrying 
the heavy wreath himself, after declining her assist- 
ance. 

As they approached the spot sought by them, Mr. 
Laycourt slackened his pace, while Bertha’s eagerness 
led her a short distance ahead of him. 

As she approached, she beheld her father there. He 
was bending over the grave and depositing fresh roses 
in the bed which had never been neglected. Bertha 
saw the same sad, careworn countenance. Hearing 
her light footsteps, he started up, and gathered her in 
his embrace. Holding her thus in his arms, he stood, 
oblivious of the presence of another. 

“Louis,” he heard a voice say, and, releasing the 
young girl, he started back as his glance rested upon 
the face of tho old man before him. 

Years had passed since they had met, and time had 
not spared them ; but its ravages were more percep- 
tible in the son than in the father. 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


295 


Very pale, though unmoved visibly, the two men 
gazed at each other steadily. Standing within six feet 
of each other, neither made a move to advance. Ber- 
tha observed the scene with an absorbing interest and in 
silence. While Louis Laycourt stood with lips firmly 
compressed, his father was the first to speak. 

“ After an absence of so many years, have you noth- 
ing to say to me ?” 

An instant of silence succeeded the question. 

“What can I say,” replied Louis, “more than has 
been already said ? Shall I recount anew the past ? 
Would you hear a tale of unending woe and misery? 
Naught else have I to tell.” 

“ Is there then of the past no pleasant thought or 
feeling dormant which the present can awaken ?” 

Louis Laycourt sadly shook his head. 

“ The present is but a passing moment, and soon 
will form a part of the dark period of my past. What 
else but sorrow should I remember ? What else was 
destined for me ? When the soul is steeped in mourn- 
ing, what is the province of the tongue ?” 

“ Are you the first being who has borne affliction ? 
and will you make it your perpetual master?” 

“Not my master; it has been my faithful slave; 
never for a moment has it failed to attend me. But 
why recall the past ? Let it remain where it has lain 
so long, hidden in my own breast. Why should I now 
berate my fate, or unburden myself to another, as 
though I sought for solace or relief? What relief is 
there for me ? did you come when human aid was pos- 
sible? now, for your aid and sympathy, I thank you. 
My Constance. is no more.” 

“You wrong me. I was abroad; I did not know. 
How could I ever suspect that — think well upon it. Lid 
I not fly to you at your first intimation ? Why did you 
not come to me ? Pride was more strong in you than 
duty or aught else. Was it a noble pride ? But where- 
fore all this? The past is past; and, as we cannot 
recall it, why recall an isolated part, a lamentable error? 
Rest the sword in its own scabbard. Why dwell upon 
the past, and utterly ignore that past that did not in- 


296 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


terrupt our peace ? Come home. Where should you 
live but in the home of your birth ?” 

“ Live in the home that closed its doors against my 
wife? Can I, without her, there find the happiness 
which, with her, I could not find ? Are virtue, grace, 
devotion, obstacles to blessedness ? Father, hear me. 
You were kind and generous to me from birth to man- 
hood ; you reared my daughter; and I am grateful to 
you. But, when you open to me the door of comfort 
and contentment, the sight repels me ; I can find there 
no comfort, no content.” 

“ You are a man of advanced age, and presumably 
know the proper limits to be assigned the influence of 
my request. In fact, this excellent judgment is co- 
existent in you with your life, and never, upon any 
improper occasion, have 3 7 ou failed to exhibit it. Thus 
it was in relation to your engagement, of which you did 
not inform me until all was irrevocably settled. Then 
again when you forsook us and the world ; yet again 
when you left your mother to mourn your supposed 
death. To act now in conformity with your present 
ideas and intentions is to do no more than consistency 
requires of you. Therefore, as I cannot prevail upon 
you to be reasonable, I shall let you follow your own 
course. But that you may not labor under any con- 
straint for my sake, — for you have ever been most con- 
siderate, — let me assure you that any course adopted 
by you will be satisfactory to me.” 

So saying, he turned away. His eyes fell upon 
Bertha’s pleading countenance. He paused. A great 
change came over him. Once more he advanced to 
Louis. Waving his hand, as if to dismiss all other 
considerations from his mind, he then addressed him. 

“You were,” he said, “and are my only son; but it 
is not that consideration which impels me now to ap- 
proach you. You have higher claims upon me. You 
are her father; and, in giving her to me, you gave me 
more than I could ever give you and more than I would 
ever with willingness return. And, too, you were the 
husband of that noble woman. I was with her in her 
last hour, and learned her last wishes, while I received 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


297 


her final looks, if not a word, of love. Then, if she 
stood as a barrier between us in those days, she stands 
between us, a connecting, precious link, to-day. Our 
recollections cluster in one sacred groove ; our hopes 
and wishes are forever centred upon one object. Here, 
standing in this holy place, I know not pride nor cold- 
ness. They are so weak, so trivial and insignificant. 
My son, will you give me your hand?” 

Laycourt knelt before his parent. 

“Father,” he said, “let us forget everything. Re- 
member only that I am your son.” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

“ To relate all that has transpired under my obser- 
vation since that memorable day were a task too 
lengthy for a single undertaking, and I shall leave it 
to future occasions, confining myself now to a few in- 
cidents and events which may occur to me.” 

This was the reply made by Louis Laycourt, upon 
the evening of the day succeeding his return, to the 
request of his father and daughter. 

“ Upon that evening, when I returned, to find my 
wife, whom I had but an hour before believed to be 
recovering, dead, I was distracted. I spoke to you, 
father, and have not since been able to recall more than 
a fraction of what I said. I know that I rushed from 
your presence, to go — I cared not whither. 

“ I ran to the banks of the river, and sprang into a 
little boat which had floated to the shore. A moment 
later, a storm arose, and my boat must have capsized ; 
for when next I was conscious of my surroundings, I 
found myself in a rude berth upon a vessel bound for 
the city. I had' been rescued at a critical time by a 
sailor, who informed me upon these facts and whose 
berth I was then occupying. With the utmost vener- 
ation, I speak of that sailor, my noble benefactor. For 
the preservation of my life, I owed him no gratitude ; 


298 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


it was then to me more burdensome than a worthless 
gift ; it was a barrier to the relief for which I prayed. 
But that rude humanitarian, that unlettered philan- 
thropist, taught me the lesson of a better life, and fur- 
nished a balm to my distraught mind. I learned that 
I was not deserted by the world ; that, in the days 
assigned by fate to the regnancy of despair, we may 
yet find a friend. He was returning from a visit to his 
parents, to resume his career on the seas. 

“Without revealing any causes, I told him of my ., 
miserable condition. I longed to fly to any place an- 
tipodal to the home of my misfortune, and begged him 
to take me with him, leaving the future to furnish me 
an opportunity to prove my gratitude. I sought to 
bind myself unto his service. Ho need ; he required no 
incentive other than my helplessness ; and, having pro- 
cured his captain’s consent, he took me with him to 
sea. I do not know how soon after we sailed from our 
country it was that I became ill, but it was four weeks 
before I regained full consciousness, after an illness 
which the physician on board declared to be the result 
of a nervous prostration. 

“ Soon after, we landed at Panama, and were trans- 
ferred to a vessel, bound upon a trading expedition in 
the Pacific Ocean. I tried to be of service, rendering 
assistance to the supercargo, and, when he died of a 
tropical disease, I was retained in his place. The first 
duty to which I devoted my energy and means was to 
repay my generous friend, whose name was John Blate, 
and upon whom I could only with great difficulty pre- 
vail to accept his dues. It was indeed a delicate duty ; 
for to approach him with money seemed like an effort 
to cancel an obligation which could not be repaid nor 
acknowledged with aught save gratitude. Two years 
we sailed the ocean together. 

“ In the course of these voyages, I met a man who 
had known Mr. Cramen, my wife’s uncle, from whom 
we had received but few letters after his departure. 
He confirmed my suspicion : soon after leaving us, Mr. 
Cramen had died. 

“ During all that time, what was the one thought 


BERTHA LAYCOURT 


299 


which, sustained me throughout my struggles ? what 
feeling still rendered life endurable? It was the hope 
. to see again my little daughter. That I left her in 
good hands, who can tell better than herself? I knew 
that she would not be forsaken ; that the home which, 
through an unfortunate misunderstanding, had been 
renounced by me, would be wide open to my innocent 
babe. Thus, even while I ran from you, father, I ap- 
pealed constantly to your generosity ; and the result 
proves that my appeal was not made in vain. 

“ It was my intention to come and claim my child as 
soon as I could provide- a suitable home and comfort- 
able subsistence for her, and to take her with me to a 
distant land, — anywhere, so long as we could live to- 
gether. With this hope, I struggled on, hoarding my 
scanty earnings with a miser’s parsimony, and greeted 
the risings of the sun as sentinels of the day on which 
my eager wish would be fulfilled. 

“ But misfortune, relentlessly pursuing me, was not 
yet appeased. There are some men to whom the sweets 
of life are but fragile coverings for the bitter morsels 
reserved beneath the surface, — a breath of incense in a 
poisonous clime. Thus they plod on through their 
weary existence, the hapless drudges of fate. 

“ In a storm, the vessel foundered, and all save human 
life was lost. The captain applied to the owner of the 
vessel for our backpay; but the owner, to whom it 
was a total loss, made no response, and we received but 
a small portion of the money due us, as we had con- 
sented to leave it with the owner. Thus the savings 
of two years were lost in a day. But that I have found 
to be no uncommon occurrence in life. Loss is easy, 
however difficult is gain ; and the error of a day is not 
remediable by the wisdom of years. 

“ We were left upon an island until the arrival one 
day of a vessel, upon which we secured employment ; 
but this was only temporary. Some weeks later, the 
ship landed in India, and our services were no longer 
required. 

“ During all this time, there had grown up a very 
warm friendship between John Blate and myself. He 


300 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


often expressed, in a jocose manner, his satisfaction 
with the thought that a man who had had the advan- 
tages of an education had been aided by him, an igno- # 
rant sailor; but he never failed to treat me with respect, 
even when I was dependent upon him. To me, it was 
a matter of regret that a mind longing for information 
and capable to convert it to knowledge had been de- 
prived of opportunities vouchsafed to many dolts ; and 
I have not yet ceased to w r onder at the singular fact 
which I have observed, that there are many men, en- 
dued with superior minds, who have attained their 
prime in ignorance of knowledge accessible to all. 

“ For me, his condition was fortunate. It afforded 
me an opportunity to render him a valuable service in 
return. Daily I devoted hours to his instruction ; and, 
after he had learned to read and write, we proceeded 
to mathematics; but in these sciences, his interest could 
not be enlisted. He professed his inability to see by 
what means the principles of compound interest would 
increase his possessions, and maintained that he could 
traverse the seas successfully without computing the 
number of gallons contained in them. 

“These assertions being undeniable, we thought it 
better not to pursue this branch beyond its rudiments ; 
but, after he had made sufficient progress, we com- 
•menced the study of history, in which he evinced much 
interest. Being an Englishman, he gloried in the 
achievements of English military and naval heroes. 
Coming to modern history, he obtained a knowledge 
of the condition of his native country and its relation 
to other lands, so that, as he expressed it, he knew 
of more of the world than the house in which he lived. 

“ In India, I was so fortunate as to obtain employ- 
ment as a teacher, and, with my earnings, I maintained 
myself and friend, who was then destitute of means. 

I would very gladly have continued to work for him 
as faithfully as he had labored for me ; but he would 
not permit me to do so, and secured employment upon 
a ship bound for America. 

“ He was my intimate friend and confidant. To him, 

I unfolded my experience of the past and hope for the 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


301 


future ; and, in the uncultured sailor, I found an earnest 
sympathizer. He vowed, when he reached the Ameri- 
can shore, to find my child, and he redeemed his 
promise. He visited Mr. Ledstone, and saw you there, 
Bertha. He described to me your every feature, as 
well as he could, and all your movements while he saw 
you. Little by little, he learned that my child was there 
by your permission, father, and would be soon removed 
to your own home. 

“ John promised to tell me all more particularly upon 
his return to India, but he never returned. He fell a 
victim to an epidemic raging in the Southern States, as 
I learned subsequently. Again I was alone. 

“Among my pupils, was a girl of ten years named 
Cora, the daughter of an Englishman, who had seen 
better days, but who at the time succeeded only to pro- 
vide for himself and her the necessaries of life. She 
was a bright, promising pupil, and I took ple'asure in 
instructing her. She was modest, gentle, and obedient. 
When, a year later, her father, who was a soldier, was 
.called to join his regiment, and, having no relative to 
whom he could intrust her, left her to my care, I took 
her to my home with more than a friendly willingness. 
She was a child whom it was not difficult to like, and 
had already endeared herself to me. She soon learned 
to regard me with filial affection. 

“ The soldier never returned. He perished on the 
field of battle. When we heard these tidings, Cora had 
been with me so long and we had become so tenderly 
attached to each other, that her grief created by the 
sad news, though deep, was only of brief duration. 
From that time, she looked upon me as her father, and 
conducted herself accordingly. 

“ In the course of time, I grew to love her and to de- 
vise plans for her welfare with a paternal interest. If at 
times I felt that she could not supply in my heart the 
place ever held by my own child, I never let her dream 
that there existed one more dear to me. 

“I applied myself sedulously to her mental and 
moral culture, and, Cora being quick of comprehension 
and eager to please, my time was not thrown away. 

26 


302 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


“ Having lost my situation as a tutor, I secured a 
position in a mercantile establishment. Cora and I 
lived sparingly. I provided for her as best I could. 
However little I earned at times, a certain portion of 
it was allotted towards the purpose which I had ever in 
view ; but my savings were small, and to you would 
seem insignificant, did I mention figures. 

“ With a feeling of exultation, I began to realize that 
I would soon have sufficient money to defray the ex- 
penses of a trip to America and return. I intended to 
take Cora with me. Before I could make the arrange- 
ments necessary, and even before I acquainted her with 
ray project, the bank in which my savings were de- 
posited failed ; and again I was left helpless. Can you 
wonder that, for a time, I saw in my prospects nothing 
but care and disappointment, and that, during those 
days, I feared that I was destined never again to see 
my daughter ? 

“ These feelings did not long impede my efforts. With 
the energy of desperation, I renewed my toil. As my 
services increased in value, my remuneration kept pace, 
so long as I could conceal my necessities from my em- 
ployers. Whenever, unfortunately, my circumstances 
became known to them, their knowledge was soon fol- 
lowed by a prompt reduction of my salary ; but, becom- 
ing apprised of the causes which led to this step, I was 
extremely wary in my intercourse with others who em- 
ployed me, with a beneficial result; for they believed 
me to be wealthy. Pretension often supplies the place 
of merit. 

“ I now intrusted my savings to no one, but kept 
them in a chest secreted in my own house at a place 
which was known to no one save Cora and myself. 

“ Cora developed into a beautiful girl ; and, though 
the adopted daughter of a poor man, had many ad- 
mirers ; for, add to her beauty of person her mental 
endowments and accomplishments, and wealth will 
seem no longer indispensable to render her attractive 
and deserving. 

“ Among her suitors, was a young man, handsome 
and dissolute, and of extravagant tastes and habits. I 


BERTHA ZAYCOURT. 


303 


observed with regret that Cora regarded him with 
more favor than she bestowed upon men far more 
worthy, and at length I determined to speak to her 
upon the subject. 

“ ‘ Cora,’ I said, 1 1 do not like this young man, Mr. 
Jeffers, who has been paying you marked attentions, 
and I would prefer that you associate less with him, 
if you do not wish to discourage his visits altogether.’ 

“ £ I shall do as you wish, father,’ she replied. 

“ He continued to call, though with less frequency. 
It was my desire to forbid his visits, but I did not want 
Cora to infer that I doubted her truth and discretion, 
and, for the time being, no more was said about it. 
But his visits again increased in number, until I could 
not forbear reverting to the matter. 

“ ‘ Cora,’ I said, ‘ I shall forbid this man to call here 
or to see you, as he sees fit to molest you constantly.’ 

“ ‘ He does not molest me, father,’ said Cora. ‘ He 
really and truly loves me.’ 

“ ‘ How do you know ? You surely have not per- 
mitted him to tell you so ?’ 

“ Cora was embarrassed, but told me all. It ap- 
peared that he had made professions of love to her, 
and, without my permission, had asked her to be his 
wife. This proposal, she had declined until she would 
speak to me. I regretted to perceive that she loved 
him in return. 

“ 1 Cora,’ I said, 1 if he were in any respect worthy 
of you, I would interpose no objection, for then it were 
possible for him to improve in other respects ; but he 
is in every way unworthy of you, and such a mar- 
riage can only result in your unhappiness. I have 
already explained to you his follies and shortcomings, 
and time has convinced me of the correctness of my 
opinion concerning him. Therefore, much as I dislike 
to deny you anything, I can even bear to give you 
pain, to save you greater pain and trouble. Let me 
speak to him, and have no further intercourse with 
him.’ 

“ Cora promised to observe my wishes. When the 
young man called next time at my house, I was at 


304 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


home. Cora remained in her own room. I wailed 
for him to speak upon the subject, to gather from his 
own words and manner his thoughts and intentions, 
hut he spoke no word, save on indifferent subjects. I 
then informed him, with as little discourtesy as I could 
display consistently with my intention, that his visits 
were displeasing to me, and requested him to discon- 
tinue them. He took no offence at the request, but 
smilingly withdrew. 

“ Next day, I returned, as usual, to my home. I 
brought with me some money, which I wanted to de- 
posit in the secreted chest ; and, going to the place 
where it was kept, I was startled to find it missing. 
I searched the premises, but could not find it. Then 
it occurred to me that Cora might have transferred it 
to a safer place. I called her, but received no re- 
sponse. Becoming thoroughly alarmed, I instituted a 
search, which led to the discovery that she was not at 
home. Without a suspicion of the truth, I sought for 
her wherever she could have been, but in vain. Be- 
coming more calm, I perceived that her clothes were 
also missing, as was also a trunk which she had kept in 
her room. I could no longer avoid the truth. Cora 
had run away, and had taken with her my savings of 
a half-dozen years. 

“ I soon learned more : she was not alone ; but, in 
company with the fellow, whom a conniving priest 
speedily made her husband, she had taken the train 
for other parts. They had a whole day’s start, and 
successfully eluded me. I was too deeply grieved and 
dejected to think of the pecuniary loss entailed by this 
escapade or to continue my pursuit for any lengthy 
period. All subsequent efforts which I made to obtain 
a trace of them were without avail. 

“ Need 1 describe my home and solitude after this 
desertion ? I shall spare you the recital. 

“I now realized that all my efforts to procure a 
home to which I could take my daughter were useless; 
and I resolved to obtain means sufficient to enable me 
to see her again, then to return and pass the remainder 
of my days in my lonely home. I omit my further 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


305 


trials and vexations until the time I found it possible 
to accomplish this purpose. Since my desertion by my 
adopted daughter, I had formed no other friendships. 
Do you marvel at that ? 

“ One evening, nearly two years after Cora’s disap- 
pearance, I was sitting in my home, and began to pre- 
pare for my departure to America. As I sat at my 
writing-desk, I heard a knock at the door. Without 
waiting for a response, the visitor entered. She was 
clad in deep mourning, and wore costly and superb 
jewels. Baising her veil, she stood before me. I sprang 
to my feet, in speechless astonishment; for, in the 
woman before me, I recognized Cora. 

Father,’ she said, throwing herself upon her knees 
before me, 1 will you forgive me ?’ 

“ I made no movement to approach her. 

“ ‘ Bise,’ I said, 1 and tell me, what does all this 
mean ?’ 

“‘Father,’ she said, ‘ I have done wrong, I have been 
very wicked ; but forgive me.’ 

“ She told me her story, which, together with my 
own inferences, apprised me of the whole truth. The 
morning of her disappearance, the fellow had come to 
her. Long and earnestly he pleaded, and not in vain. 
He knew that I had some money, and he counselled 
her to take it with her. The result of these importu- 
nities I have already detailed to you. They were mar- 
ried and left the country. They had not lived together 
long before his love for her waned, and he remained 
from home entire days. But, if he tired of her, she 
tired no less of him. She was an intelligent girl ; he, 
an ignorant adventurer, with nothing but his handsome 
face to gain him consideration. He spent freely the 
money which they had taken from me ; he had no 
other means. After a time, he provided for her scarcely 
the necessaries of life, and her situation would have 
been desperate but for two accidents, which trans- 
pired in rapid succession. Twice death intervened in 
her behalf, to save her for a time from its own em- 
braces. A wealthy uncle of the scapegrace died without 
a will ; and, leaving no other relative, the property de- 
u 26 * 


306 


BERTHA LAYCOTJRT. 


•scended to the fellow. From that time, her life with 
him was intolerable. He loaded her with reproaches 
and contempt, maltreated her in various ways, and as- 
sured her that she would never benefit by his good for- 
tune ; but the means which had secured for him his 
wealth speedily deprived him of it ; for, in a drunken 
brawl, he was killed, and she was left the possessor of 
his fortune. 

“‘And now, father,’ she said, ‘we will no longer 
save and economize, but will have all the comforts and 
luxuries which money can procure, and ’ 

“ I began to speak and she was silent. 

“ ‘ Cora, it will not be so,’ I said. ‘ There was a time 
when I loved you as though you were my own child, 
as which indeed you demeaned yourself towards me ; 
but that time is no more. One act may sever the bonds 
of years ; and this you accomplished. Do you know 
what you did, that day that you deserted me and your 
home, to share the misfortunes of your shiftless lover ? 
You deprived me — though only for a time, it is my hope 
— of a daughter. Ho, not yourself ; do not profane the 
name. Ho usurper will ever again come between her 
and me. Far away she lives, — in America, my former 
home. It was my ambition to provide a home for her ; 
and when, after years of toil, I had amassed the means 
wherewith to gratify my hope, the ingrate who had, 
in measure however slight, assumed her place deprived 
me of the means to obtain my only consolation. Do 
you think that your presence in my home for years 
can atone for a moment of her absence ? You are now 
wealthy, and I rejoice at your good fortune, because it 
severs our ties and obligations towards each other.’ 

“ Here she interrupted me. 

“ ‘ Father,’ she said, ‘ I can restore a hundred-fold 
what I took, — I would that I had died before that day. 
We can travel to America; we will find your other 
daughter, and bring her to a home of plenty, where 
she will live contentedly, — your daughter and my 
sister.’ 

“ These words were accompanied by a flow of peni- 
tent tears. 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


307 


“ 1 Do you think/ I said, ‘ that I would use such 
means for such a purpose ? You have returned to me 
quite changed. Did you expect to find no change in 
me ? You will find no less than a transformation. My 
path is circumscribed by toil and wretchedness ; and 
how durst I have presumed to combat my destiny ? 
Yain and presumptuous folly, to attempt to evade 
darkness by opening my window during night. I 
should have known that anything w T hich bore to me the 
semblance of relief was but a snare, and that, in bring- 
ing to my home one whom I loved, I courted but ad- 
ditional trouble. I am resigned to my fate. I have 
now no hope or desire other than to see my daughter, 
then to return, to be once more the puppet of misfor- 
tune. Go, and enjoy your wealth. I want none of it. 
All that I ask of you is that you forget me, as you 
yourself will soon be forgotten by me in all that is re- 
lated to the heart. Never do I wish to see you again, 
but away from me may you live in peace and happiness 
so long as you do not molest me. I have no more to 
say to you. Let your fortune be your comfort, and 
your conduct be your only reproach.’ 

“ With tears and entreaties, she vainly assailed my 
purpose until I arose and left her. When I returned 
next day, she was no longer there. I learned that she 
had departed for another land, the place in which were 
the possessions of the man from whom she had inher- 
ited her fortune. Her letters I returned unanswered. 
After that, I learned that she married again, to relieve 
her lonelinessj and heard no more of her. 

“ Now I resolved that nothing would prevent the 
immediate achievement of my end. In the establish- 
ment in which I was employed for some years, I formed 
the acquaintance of another clerk, who occupied a good 
position, to which his mercantile qualifications were 
well adapted. With him, I contracted a partnership, 
in a business from which we both.expected, with reason, 
to derive profit ; and, having intrusted to his hands 
the management of our affairs, I secured passage to 
England. 

“ Before embarking, I disguised myself, to escape 


308 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


possible recognition. This done, I sailed for England, 
thence to America. 

“ Can I describe the feelings with which, after an 
absence of twelve years, I beheld my native State ? 
Need I tell you the emotions with which I stepped at 
length ashore and kissed the ground which had given 
birth to my misfortunes ? 

“ That evening I concealed myself within a block of 
Avhere we now are and watched, but without result. 
Next morning, I sought another post, and, towards 
noon, how bountifully was I rewarded ! I caught 
sight of my father, leading from the house a young 
girl, whom I knew to be my child. Not for an instant 
would I have removed my eyes had blindness been the 
cost of my indulgence. A moment later, they entered 
a carriage in waiting and were driven off. I followed 
the vehicle until it was out of sight, then retreated, to 
await their return. Towards evening, they came, and 
my vigilance was recompensed. 

“ I now experienced an irresistible desire to be near 
my child, if only for an hour, and thought upon various 
means. At last, I hit upon a tempting expedient. I 
was disguised and feared no recognition, even by my 
father. Why not endeavor to engage myself in his 
domestic service? I resolved to make the attempt, 
and applied to the steward, from whom I learned that 
the only position to be had was that of gardener. This 
was the one position which I could assume ; and, after 
calling several times at his request, I was retained as a 
gardener in my father’s household. The steward men- 
tioned to me the amount of wages I would receive, but 
I did not hear nor heed him ; the place secured, my 
reward was certain and ample. 

“ Thus I spent two brief, delightful days. My father 
I saw but little. My little girl passed hours in the 
garden, and to her assistance I was largely indebted 
for the retention of my office. Judge what her pres- 
ence was to me. Often, as she stood beside me, I longed 
to clasp her to my bosom, to breathe the words that, 
ember-like, consumed my heart. I placed strong fetters 
upon my inclinations ; with all my power, I strove to 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


309 


repress my feelings, and succeeded until the transpire- 
ment of the incident which you can now recall, when 
my rashness led to my discharge. I well remember 
your rebuke, father, and the look of compassion of my 
daughter. 

“For a minute, I was strongly tempted to make a 
full disclosure, but my will did not leave me at the 
mercy of my indiscretion. So, bowing submissively to 
my fate, I left. 

“ Thereafter, for a time, I lingered about the adjoining 
premises, until their owner bade me go. I could not 
even resent this indignity. I visited the graves of my 
wife and mother, and there I passed many hours in 
reflection upon my proper course. 

“Before coming, it had been my intention to take 
my child home with me, but that was a project which 
I now abandoned. To take her from such a home as 
the one which she had to the only one that I could 
offer was an idea discountenanced alike by duty, right, 
and wisdom, and finding in folly and selfishness its only 
adherents. Strong as were my claims upon her, father, 
your claims seemed stronger. 

“Abstinence is less difficult than moderation. I had 
been in the presence of my child, and I was content to 
be nowhere else. Having lost what I had already 
gained, I thought upon various plans to regain it, but 
could devise none feasible. I feared that, through my 
vigils and observations, I might be discovered, to the 
prejudice of the peace and content which I found pre- 
vailing. Troubled by these fears, I resolved to return 
to my adopted country, and strive, with redoubled zeal 
and energy, to acquire a home to which I could con- 
scientiously take my daughter. Once more I visited 
my home, without revealing my presence. Then I 
departed. 

“ When I arrived in India, the business conducted by 
my partner was in a flourishing condition, and I entered 
eagerly upon my commercial battle. I no longer lacked 
experience. After a year of success, we passed through 
a lengthy period of depression ; but we progressed, 
though slowly. 


310 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


“ The years passed on, and our success continued. 
In India, I lived a life of business activity, and other- 
wise maintained seclusion. My one well-defined am- 
bition clung to me. It furnished me a worthy aim, 
refreshing and inspiring. 

“An enterprise into which we entered yielded us 
an enormous profit, which we invested, as capitalists 
thought, with safety, in real property. Now my efforts 
had triumphed ; my hopes were to be realized. 

“ It would have been difficult to divine a new shape 
that a possible mishap, lying in ambush, could assume. 
The estates in our immediate possession were sufficient 
to render us wealthy men. There arose a rebellion of 
great magnitude. The rapacious natives spared the 
property of neither friend nor foe. All that they could 
seize, they regarded to be their rightful booty, and much 
that was not removable — such structures as dwellings 
and stores — they contented themselves with destroying. 
When the British commander finally succeeded in re- 
storing order, our property situated in that vicinity 
was practically worthless, and we had no resources 
other than our heavy outstandings. Out of these, we 
paid our debts, and retained an inconsiderable sum. 
My partner and his family then removed to his native 
country, England. 

“After this mischance, I realized that wealth was 
not one of the misfortunes with which I was doomed 
to be inflicted. Having deliberated, I resolved to re- 
turn to America. There I would be near my daughter, 
would probably see her frequently, and, if justified by 
future events, would unfold my secret. 

“ I returned to America, this time without disguise, 
for I doubted not but the alteration in my appearance 
was sufficient to conceal my identity. I discovered that 
you were absent from the city, Bertha, though I could 
not learn where you were. I have seen you at inter- 
vals, father, since my return. Daily I visited the grave 
of Constance until the day that I met Bertha there. 
With subsequent transpirements, you are familiar.” 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


311 


CHAPTER XXXYI. 

Again Bertha’s path was free from thorns. She had 
effected a reconciliation between her relatives, and now 
lived contentedly under the same roof with them in- 
stead of being driven to the extremity to choose be- 
tween them. In addition to this, she was released from 
an engagement which, she was now free to confess to 
herself, had existed without her desire. 

The expression of sadness which at one time had 
apparently stamped itself ineradicably upon Laycourt’s 
face yielded now, beneath the influence of his new sur- 
roundings, to a look of contentedness. To him, Con- 
stance seemed to be repeated in disposition in Bertha. 
A great portion of his time was devoted to a study 
of his daughter. Hot a thought nor a motive revealed 
by her escaped his attention. He followed her move- 
ments with care and pride, and he soon learned to re- 
gard her with the great affection which he had formerly 
bestowed upon her mother. 

Bertha would sit for consecutive hours and listen 
to his narration of adventures and anecdotes coming 
within the wide range of his personal experience and 
observation. But there were many occurrences which 
he withheld from her and recited only to his father. 
It did not require much time for him to discover that 
of the existence of vice she had been kept in igno- 
rance, and in her presence he avoided all subjects in 
which wrong figured as the basis or motive of ac- 
tion. 

The relations between him and his father were very 
friendly. Mr. Laycourt joined Bertha in efforts to make 
him forget, so far as possible, his past care in his present 
fortune ; and, without rendering his intention apparent, 
conveyed to him by degrees a large portion of his own 
vast possessions. 

“ Louis,” he would say, “ here is a new enterprise, in 
which my friends desire me to co-operate with them. 


312 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


I think it will be profitable, and am willing to enter 
upon it if you undertake the management of it.” 

Having obtained bis son’s assent to this proposition, 
be caused the shares of stock for which be subscribed 
to be placed in the name of Louis Laycourt and de- 
livered to him, when he disclaimed all connection with 
it, and left his interest entirely to Louis, who could not 
have declined the gift without exhibiting a spirit of 
ingratitude and churlishness. Neither of the men dis- 
closed to Bertha the deplorable condition of her parents 
in the past, nor the cause of her mother’s death ; and 
she never learned any more than she already knew 
concerning these matters. 

The mansion was now the home of peace and happi- 
ness. Mr. Laycourt felt elated over the return of the 
son whom he had mourned as dead, and the opportu- 
nity afforded him for retrieval ; while Louis had attained 
a position not suggested by his most sanguine hopes, 
entertained within recent years. 

After two weeks, Louis found it necessary to go to 
England, to adjust some matters which still remained 
unsettled between his former partner in business and 
himself. He was anxious to expedite the transaction 
in order that he could thenceforth follow his desire, and 
his promise to return as speedily as possible lacked no 
sincerity. 

But his return was preceded by that of another. 

The day set for the marriage of Esther Northwood 
was approaching, and the time was marked with the 
elaborate preparations incidental to such occasions. 
Esther, visiting her friend one day, requested Mr. Lay- 
court’s permission to take her home with her for a 
time, and he allotted two days for the visit. 

Esther was, in the absence of her mother, in charge 
of the house. The two young girls had much to say 
to each other. Bertha related to her friend many of 
the details of her father’s experience during his ab- 
sence, and his return, which was already known to 
the friends of the family. Esther, in turn, confided 
the many secrets which arise at all times in the life of 
a young girl. Thus the greater portion of the two 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


313 


days was passed. Esther had promised the sister of 
her betrothed a brief visit during these days; and, 
agreeing to return soon, she drove off in the phaeton 
in which Harold saw her. Bertha went into the draw- 
ing-room, and took with her a book, which she opened 
when she was seated. 

But she could not read that evening with any degree 
of appreciation. Try as she would to concentrate her 
thoughts upon the subject on which she read, she 
failed to do so. She closed the book, arose, and walked 
to the window, impenetrably curtained. 

She was in a thoughtful mood, approaching nearly 
to pensiveness. If, thought she, as she reviewed her 
own recent trial and the point to which she had been 
driven, it were possible for her to be thus burdened 
with care, it was no less possible for others to be visited 
with similar experiences ; and could the outcome always 
be so felicitous as it had been with her? Was there 
not, after all, more care and trouble in the life of her 
fellow-creatures than she had thought ? And here 
occurred to her the poor widow Myrtle, and another 
friend, Harold Warpole, the nature or cause of whose 
sorrow she could not divine ; yet it existed. 

Her thoughts having been led in this direction, she 
now recalled their last meeting, from his approach to 
her in the arbor until their parting. 

He had told her that she would perhaps never see 
him again, and had accompanied this statement with 
no explanation of reason or circumstance. She won- 
dered whether she would ever see him again. 

While she was thus reflecting and speculating, she 
heard the sound of a footstep ; and, turning to see who 
the intruder, unannounced, could be, beheld, before 
her, the object of her immediate thoughts. 

Harold started back, and the blood rushed in a hot 
stream to his face in his surprise to find there unex- 
pectedly the one for whom his heart was seeking. 

But, if he was surprised to meet the young girl, 
whom he had believed to be in the same city with him- 
self, what was her astonishment to see him, whom she 
had believed to be in distant lands? 

27 


o 


314 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


A moment he remained motionless, then rushed, 
with outstretched hands, towards her ; for she could 
not advance a step to meet him. He seized her hands 
and clasped them so firmly as to have caused her pain, 
but her mind was open to no such impression. It was 
less than two months since they had parted, but dis- 
tance exaggerates time. 

“ You are surprised to see me ? Your surprise is far 
excelled by my delight,” he said. 

Bertha now regained control of her voice. 

“ I am indeed surprised, but no less pleased to see 
you here, Mr. Warpole,” she said. 

“ I would repeat my voyage ten thousand times to 
meet the same welcomer and welcome,” said Harold. 
“ It is not long since we last met ; it cannot be so long 
as it has seemed to me ; for, if you would give a day 
long life, place it between your wish and its fulfil- 
ment.” 

“ Your return is recent ?” inquired Bertha. 

“ Yesterday I arrived from Europe, in different parts 
of which I have passed the time that has elapsed since 
our last meeting. I had intended to travel through 
Asia, and possibly Australia ; but circumstances, friendly 
to my desire, caused me to abandon those intentions 
and contrived my return much sooner than I had 
thought it possible to occur.” 

After he was seated, he made inquiries relating to 
herself and the Northwood family, and, in response to 
her request, described some of the places recently seen 
by him. 

Bertha was pleased to observe the change that had 
taken place in him, extending even to an alteration in 
his appearance. The load which had formerly op- 
pressed him was apparently removed from his mind, 
and now he spoke as though his immediate occupation 
were the prime object of his interest. In consequence, 
her own contemplative mood forsook her and their 
dialogue was animated. 

“ And yesterday,” continued Harold, “the day of 
my arrival, I sought for your address. I wanted to see 
you, Miss Berrill. I have much to say to you, much 


BERTHA LAYCOVRT. 


315 


that I left unsaid. May I find to all I have to say the 
patient listener who formerly tendered me her sympa- 
thy ! Wherefore should I speak to you upon subjects 
which claim but a minor share of my attention, and 
maintain silence upon the one topic that absorbs my 
mind ? Why speak of scenes of beauty, overshadowed 
by the one enchanting prospect appealing to my soul ? 
Is it possible that I can have concealed my secret from 
you ? Can you guess what it is ? I would not have 
you guess it. It is a secret which I long to tell.” 

Bertha listened to these words with a beating heart, 
and her appearance betokened that she was not en- 
tirely at ease. But Harold proceeded without hesi- 
tation. 

“ It is not four months since we first met, but those 
months comprise a lifetime of happy existence, which 
leaves me the sole hope for its continuance. To me, 
the years during which I did not know you exist no 
more ; these months, all too fleeting, control my 
thoughts and destiny ; for in that period I have 
learned to know you and to love you ; to love you 
truly, deeply, infinitely. Before I ask you- the one 
question trembling on my lips, let me reveal to you 
another secret, intimately connected with the first, 
and which I dare no longer conceal, even if the oc- 
casion for concealment had not been removed. I plead 
guilty to a harmless deception, w T hile innocent of the 
perfidy which deception usually involves. I returned 

to this country and came to H , concealing my 

identity under a pseudonyme. My name is not Harold 
Warpole ; for until that time I had borne no name other 
than Harold Berwood. How let me tell you the occa- 
sion ” 

But Harold paused as he noticed the violent start 
with which his listener received this information. Pale 
with agitation, Bertha arose from her chair and walked 
quickly to the window. Pausing there a moment, she 
returned, and muttered some unintelligible words in 
apology. 

“ I fear I have depicted my conduct in too strong a 
light,” said Harold. “ Believe me, when you will have 


316 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


heard all, — and nothing shall I conceal from you, — you 
will acquit me of aught dishonorable.” 

Thus he defended his honor before a judge no less 
guilty than himself; but the judge could at that mo- 
ment render no lucid decision further than the reply : 

“ Nothing could convince me of the contrary.” 

From this answer, Harold inferred that his trial 
would be conducted with fairness and impartiality. 

“ I believe I have already stated that my real name 
is Harold Berwood.” 

Bertha bowed assent ; the statement had not escaped 
her attention ! 

“ My father is, and for many years has been, an in- 
timate friend of a gentleman named Mr. Laycourt, of 
whom you may have heard.” 

“ Yes, I know Mr. Laycourt very well,” said Bertha, 
who now began to feel again at her ease. 

“ There is also a lady connected with the story, of 
course,” said Harold, “ a granddaughter of Mr. Laycourt 
named Bertha. Ho you know her ?” 

“ I have known her nearly all my life,” replied Ber- 
tha. 

“ While I was still a very young man, scarcely more 
than a boy, and she was only a little girl of twelve or 
thirteen years, our guardians — for the purpose, as I 
understand, on the one hand to discourage the adven- 
turers who would be attracted by the young heiress for 
reasons existing independently of her real merit, and, 
on the other hand, also to prevent any misalliance — 
entered into an engagement of marriage between Miss 
Bertha and myself. I liked her ; I could not do other- 
wise ; of any deeper feeling, I was at the time incapa- 
ble; and so the arrangement was made with my assent. 
As for my young betrothed, I cannot say with cer- 
tainty by what motive she was actuated, or whether 
she was consulted to any great extent or not. How- 
ever, the engagement was made, and subsisted more 
than six years. When I finished my collegiate course, 
after a year of travel, there devolved upon me the duty 
to return. I had in former years attempted to procure 
through my father a release from an engagement in 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


317 


which the feelings of neither party had been consulted, 
— in short, an agreement of marriage based upon social 
and financial considerations. My father answered that 
I did not know my own mind,- and it was incumbent 
upon me to prove that I did. Finding letters to him 
to be of no avail, I desisted, and made no further men- 
tion of the matter, though he referred to it at length 
and with a very strong purpose in every letter written 
by him. Upon returning, I learned through a friend 

that Miss Laycourt was expected at N , where she 

would pass the summer. It occurred to me to meet 
her there under an assumed name, and to study her 
with the carefulness necessary to observe in the choice 

of a wife. At N , I did not meet her ; but I met 

you, with what result you already know, and shall 
hear time and time again so long as I have power to 
tell you that I love you. She did not come,— may she 
be ever blessed for that, and for all else that she has 
done and left undone in this connection, — and, in your 
presence, I was content ; but it could not be so. With 
alarm, I discovered the truth. Now you comprehend 
the nature of a sorrow which I could not reveal nor 
entirely conceal ; but you do not — you cannot realize 
the position of one who, loving one, is bound to another, 
firmly bound by his own misleading silence and ap- 
parent acquiescence. I went abroad, determined to 
school myself in the line of duty, and, when my task 
would be accomplished to the extent of possibility, to 
return to my betrothed. Did I exaggerate when I told 
you that my absence might be prolonged to years? 
But travel, reason, will, did not aid my purpose. I 
realized that I could not do my duty towards her ; 
that I could not transfer to her the heart that would 
not forswear allegiance to another, and I resolved to 
disclose the truth, leaving to her the decision upon 
which our happiness depended. With a promptness 
probably not designed to gratify my vanity, else failing 
of its purpose, she annulled our engagement.” 

Bertha heard only a meagre portion of this story. 
His name was amply suggestive of the whole. She 
realized the purpose of his recital and the probable 
27 * 


318 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


sequel.- With fluttering heart, she sat, unable for a 
time to collect her thoughts ; but the length of his nar- 
ration afforded her the^ opportunity so much required. 

“ Then again I was free to seek for the one ever fore- 
most in my thoughts ; again I sought for you. I could 
not find your home nor your parents ; but they cannot 
and will not withhold from me permission to utter that 
which I must tell you. I love you, Lucy. You, who 
commune with all enrapturing forms of nature, learn 
from them my thoughts ; let your own sympathetic 
heart reveal to you the feelings that possess my soul. 
My love can claim but little of the past, but all the 
future that my life can know. Speak, Lucy ; tell me, 
will you be my wife ?” 

Notwithstanding the ampleness of time for prepara- 
tion, Bertha was as unprepared for this question as if 
she had anticipated a contrary avowal. She turned 
away her face, suffused with deep blushes, and her 
manner evinced an unmistakable embarrassment. 

Harold took her hand and held it while ho spoke. 

“ Do I ask too much in asking all that I desire and 
all that can be given me? Dare I divine your an- 
swer ?” 

She made an effort to look up at him, but failed. 

“Lucy, do I read aright your answer?” 

Now, for a moment, Bertha looked at him. Her eyes 
had a mischievous expression, which he, however, could 
not interpret. 

“ I have a condition to name,” she said. 

“ Name your condition, my own Lucy, — for mine you 
are, as your answer depends upon my willingness to 
comply with any condition which you can impose.” 

By this time, Bertha had regained a reasonable de- 
gree of composure. 

“ Mr. Berwood, I shall make what may appear to 
you to be a very unreasonable request— — ” 

“Impossible; you can make no request which will 
appear to me unreasonable. -The condition, Lucy, 
name it.” 

Bertha bowed her thanks. 

“ Let Bertha Laycourt give her consent,” she said. 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


319 


“ Forgive me, Mr. Bervvood, but she and I have been 
on intimate terms since early childhood, and not for the 
world would I have a misunderstanding exist between 
you and her. Will you call upon her?” 

“ Can you doubt it ? That then being settled, may I 
construe your answer as I will, my Lucy?” 

Bertha smiled and shook her head in the negative. 

“Wait for Bertha Laycourt’ s answer,” she said. 
“And, Mr. Berwood, you must not call me your Lucy, 
for I am not, and cannot be unless Bertha give her 
consent with her whole heart. Who knows but, piqued 
for the moment by your letter, she made the reply sent 
by her and which she may now regret to have made ? 
Indeed, her haste in answering indicates that that is 
probable, and ” 

Bertha heard a voice in the hall, and recognized it 
to be that of Esther Horthwood. Uttering a hasty 
apology, she ran into the hall just in time to prevent 
Esther’s entrance through the door. Bertha laid her 
hand upon Esther’s lips, beckoned her to follow her, 
and to the library they went. 

“ Why, Bertha, what can be the matter with you?” 
inquired Esther. 

“Esther, he is here, Mr. Warpole, Mr. Berwood. 
They are both one; they are both Mr. Warpole, — I 

mean Mr. Berwood. You understand ; he went to H 

just as I did, under an assumed name and with a sim- 
ilar purpose. He told me — he wanted to renew the 
compact ; but I refused to answer until he would see 
Bertha Laycourt and obtain her consent.” 

Esther listened to this hurried recital with the utmost 
amazement. 

“Harold Warpole and Harold Berwood are the 
same?” she inquired. 

Bertha shook her head in assent. 

“And whichever one it is has asked you to be his 
wife ?” continued Esther. 

Bertha remained silent. 

“ And you refuse until he obtains the consent of 
Bertha Laycourt ? Then he does not know that you are 
Bertha Laycourt?” 


320 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


“ Of course not,” said Bertha, “ nor must you tell 
him. Please do not tell him; do not say a word. I 
must return now. Come, Esther. No, wait a minute 
before you come, that he may not suspect.” 

So saying, Bertha returned to the drawing-room, and 
again apologized to Harold, who had passed the time 
in pondering upon her strange manner and request. 
Perhaps, he thought, it was only a girlish whim ; for, 
though he knew her to be unwhimsical, she was subject 
at the time to an agitation which deprived her of her 
perfect self-control. But the nature or origin of the 
request could exert no influence upon its execution, 
which depended alone on her will. 

“Has my wife any further instructions to give?” 
he inquired. 

“ No other,” said Bertha. “ But I am not your wife. 
Bertha Laycourt may not be satisfied to abide by her 
hasty action in releasing you. I have been her confi- 
dante for years, and know something of her thoughts 
and feelings. She may prefer to maintain her engage- 
ment to you.” 

“ If I do not love her?” 

“She may think it possible to win your love. If 
she discover that to be impossible, she may impose no 
further restraint upon you ; but to determine that, she 
may, and probably will, put you to a lengthy probation.” 

“ Truly, you devise ingenious means of escape,” was 
his comment. 

“ While escape is possible,” supplemented Bertha. 

This answer satisfied Harold ; and, at that moment, 
they were interrupted by the entranee of Esther. It 
was with genuine delight that he exchanged greetings 
with her. 

The conversation that now ensued was conducted 
almost entirely by Esther and Harold. Bertha uttered 
scarcely a word. At the expiration of another hour, 
Harold bade the ladies good-night, and returned to his 
home. 

“Now,” said Esther, after he had gone, “tell me all 
about it, — what you have done and what you intend 
to do.” 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


321 


Bertha unfolded her plan to Esther, who gave it her 
approval ; and, until a late hour, they conversed upon 
this subject. 

Bertha was eager to see her grandfather at the 
earliest moment practicable, and next morning, as soon 
as she could leave with propriety, she did so. 

Mr. Laycourt was at home when she arrived, and 
she repaired immediately to his presence. 

“ Grandpapa,” she said, “ I have something very 
strange — something wonderful to tell you.” 

“ Another secret ? Proceed.” 

“ Grandpapa, would you now be displeased if I do not 
break my engagement with Mr. Berwood ?” 

Mr. Laycourt looked at her inquiringly. 

“ Then you have seen him and think that you can 
like him after all? By no means; it would give me 
great pleasure to have the engagement renewed. He 
was here on the day you went home with Esther; but, 
I confess, I am surprised.” 

“ You will be more so when you hear my story. Yes, 
grandpapa, I have seen him. I saw him yester-eve, 
but not for the first time within the past three months. 
I told you of Mr. Warpole, the gentleman whom I met 

at H last summer. He was Mr. Berwood. He 

came, there incognito, to meet me, just as I wanted to 
meet him. Each succeeded to meet the other as in- 
tended, and each remained in ignorance of success. Last 
evening, while I was at Esther’s home, Mr. Warpole 
called. Before he spoke of the other matter, he told 
me his real name, and then he told me — he asked me — 
he said that ” 

“You need not tell me, if it occasions you so much 
embarrassment; I can infer with less.” 

Bertha, seated on an ottoman beside him, hid her face 
upon his arm. 

“ And what did you say ?” queried Mr. Laycourt. 

“ Only that, before I give an answer, he must obtain 
the consent of Bertha Laycourt.” 

“ Then you did not reveal to him your own iden- 
tity ?” 

“ Certainly not. He knows me only as Lucy Berrill.” 


322 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


“ Well, possibly he may discover it himself,” said Mr. 
Laycourt. “ But tell me — for I do not understand — 
why was your discovery so gratifying ? In what re- 
spect or by what means does Mr. Warpole recommend 
Mr. Berwood to your favor? You perceive, you made 
an omission in your story.” 

Bertha made no intelligible response. Mr. Laycourt 
waited for a moment. 

“ Then, after all, you have fallen in love with Harold 
Berwood ?” 

“ You are jealous, grandpapa,” was Bertha’s reply. 


CHAPTER XXXYII. 

When Harold awoke next morning at a late hour 
and went below to meet his father, to whom he desired 
to communicate his news, he found that Mr. Berwood 
had already gone to his office. 

There was, in fact, some important business which re- 
quired Mr. Berwood’s personal attention at an early 
hour ; and, without waiting to see his son and ignorant 
of the character of the news to be related by him when 
seen, he proceeded to his office. 

Having despatched his business, he was seated alone 
in his private office, when he received a visitor in the 
person of Mr. Laycourt. After shaking hands with 
Mr. Berwood, without bestowing a thought upon busi- 
ness or the weather, the visitor stated the object of his 
visit. 

“ I come upon an errand,” he said, “ which, will prob- 
ably take you by surprise no less than I was taken by 
surprise when this morning the circumstances which 
occasion it were revealed to me. It seems that our en- 
gagement will subsist, after all, and without argument 
or solicitation on our part.” 

Mr. Berwood removed his spectacles and held them 
in his hand, while he leaned forward and regarded his 
visitor with astonishment. 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


323 


“The man who proposes a riddle knows best its solu- 
tion,” he said. “If your object was to surprise me, you 
have already accomplished it; for, within these four 
walls, I hear much of the rise and decline of stocks ; but 
my imagination partakes of little refreshment here.” 

“ Then you will probably understand the situation 
better after you hear my story,” said Mr. Laycourt. 
“ It seems that when Harold returned to this country 

a few months ago, he went directly to M , where he 

met Bertha, under the name of Lucy Berrill, and ” 

“ Stop !” cried Mr. Berwood, springing to his feet. “ I 
know the rest.” He advanced and shook with hearti- 
ness the hand of Mr. Laycourt. 

“ Then Bertha is really Lucy Berrill, the mischievous 
coquette who fomented all this trouble ?” 

“ Yes ; but how do you know it?” 

“ He told me the other day, as soon as he arrived, 
that the reason he desired to have his engagement with 
Bertha broken was because he loved a mysterious girl 
named Lucy Berrill. But how did she learn who he 
is?” 

“ The evening after you were with me at my house, 
he met her at Morth wood’s home, and then he told her 
all, and more than I know ; but first revealed to her his 
real name.” 

“ And they settled the whole matter between them 
without our further assistance ?” 

“ Ho ; Bertha thought that the revelation of one such 
secret was sufficient for one day, and told him nothing 
further than that, before he could obtain her assent, he 
must have the consent of Bertha Laycourt, to procure 
which may not be very difficult.” 

Mr. Berwood, after a hearty laugh, inquired, “ What 
does she purpose to do now ?” 

“ Come with him to-morrow evening and you will 
see,” returned the other. “You will recall, I told you 
in his hearing that Bertha would not be home until 
Saturday, so that he will not come until then. Come 
home and take luncheon with me, then she can tell 
you.” 

Mr. Berwood accepted the invitation, and together 


324 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


they drove to Mr. Laycourt’s home. They entered the 
library, and, a minute later, Bertha came to meet them. 
Mr. Berwood took her hands and kissed her fondly. 

“ You have behaved wickedly, Mrs. Berwood,” he 
said, “ but you are my daughter, and I must forgive 
you. Conceive the position in which you and Harold 
left your grandfather and myself. We were the victims 
of all your jests and gambols.” 

“Were not you and grandpapa our accomplices?” 
suggested Bertha. 

“ Your tools; we made a plan to bind you, and were 
ourselves entrapped,” returned Mr. Berwood. 

He remained an hour, after which he arose to go. 

“ I know that Harold has something to tell me,” he 
said, “ and, if he would consent, I would like to take 
home my stenographer, to transcribe his tale. How- 
ever, I shall try to repeat it to you as nearly as possi- 
ble, Laycourt. Good-by, Lucy Berrill, or Bertha Lay- 
court, whichever you may be at present; your desire to 
change your name will soon be gratified.” 

So saying, he went to his own home. 

He was right. Harold had something of importance 
to say to him, as was disclosed soon after his return. 

“Well, my son, what is it?” inquired Mr. Berwood, 
taking off his spectacles and looking inquiringly at 
Harold. 

“ Father,” commenced the latter, “ I have already 
told you so much, that little remains to he said. Last 
evening I met Miss Berrill, and learned, if possible, 
more certainly the truth, that for me and my happiness 
there is no other.” 

“ You promised me that you would not seek Miss 
Berrill before you would meet Bertha.” 

“ Yes, but fate was more kind to me than was my 
own intention. Men often stumble upon fortune, though 
more often over it.” 

“You have not yet answered my question: who is 
she, and of what family?” 

“ I may have been remiss,” said Harold, “ but that 
question has not occurred to me since you last pro- 
pounded it. You need entertain no needless concern. 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


325 


She is of good family ; any family must be excellent to 
include her as one of its members ; and I have further 
proof in her intimacy with the North woods, whom you 
know.” 

“ I have thought much upon this matter, Harold, and 
have already stated to you my conclusions. As I per- 
ceive that you have staked your happiness upon your 
hopes to make Miss Berrillyour wife, you have my full 
consent and best wishes for your success to win her. 
Moreover, you may go to her whenever you please, — 
at once ; I release you from your promise to see Bertha 
first, as it appears to be so strongly opposed to your 
desire.” 

“No ; to that promise I must adhere, for I have also 
made it to another, — to Lucy,” said Harold. “ She re- 
quires me to secure the consent of Miss Laycourt be- 
fore I can obtain her own reply.” 

“ What if Bertha declines to consent?” 

“ I do not contemplate such a possibility. She ap- 
peared too ready to relieve herself of me and my claims 
upon her. What young lady of Miss Laycourt’ s honor 
and scrupulosity would deny such a request ? I admit, 
my task is a delicate one, but I appreciate the motive 
with which it was assigned, and have no doubt of the 
result. Do not doubt, Miss Laycourt will exhibit more 
gratitude than resentment or regret.” 

“ Well, I hope for your success,” said Mr. Berwood. 
“After all,” he continued, “ I think it best as it is. And, 
Harold, I can ease your task by telling you a secret 
that has but recently come to my knowledge. Bertha 
is herself in love ; and, being so, she would not wed 
another than the man she loves. You will, therefore, 
have little difficulty to procure her consent to your 
marriage with Miss Berrill. She will be a model wife 
to any man fortunate enough to secure her.” 

This information was very gratifying to Harold. He 
now anticipated the speedy adjustment of matters to 
general satisfaction, and awaited, with as much philos- 
ophy as he could muster to his aid, the coming of the 
morrow. 

It came, though not so soon as expected. Mr. Ber- 
28 


326 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


wood, before going to his office, inquired of Harold 
the hour to be set for his visit to Miss Laycourt and 
proclaimed his intention to accompany him. 

At the time appointed, the two gentlemen went upon 
their visit. Having arrived at their destination, they 
found Mr. Laycourt in the drawing-room. 

“Are you again alone?” inquired Mr. Berwood. 

“ No, Bertha is at home this evening,” was the reply. 

Hearing this, Harold requested the liberty to speak 
with her, a privilege which was accorded him. Mr. 
Laycourt caused Bertha to be notified of the presence 
of their guests. This done, he requested private speech 
with Mr. Berwood, and, leaving Harold alone, together 
they repaired to the library. . 

Perhaps the extent of time which Harold was required 
to wait was exaggerated by his fancy, but it certainly 
exceeded the limits of strict necessity. He waited with 
extreme interest. He recalled his prospective bride, 
whom he had left nearly seven years before in that 
same room ; all their past relations recurred, in chro- 
nological order, to his mind. These reflections and his 
recent past were sufficient to inspire him with an eager- 
ness, bordering upon an irresistible desire, to see her. 

He heard the rustling of a dress, and arose as a lady 
crossed the threshold. Glancing with intense interest 
at her, he beheld before him Lucy Berrill. 

In unspeakable astonishment, he continued to gaze 
upon her, who stood calmly looking at him in return. 

“ You wished to see Bertha Laycourt,” she said, 
“ and she is here, awaiting your pleasure.” 

Harold continued to stare at her in blank amazement, 
and Bertha could no longer repress a gleeful, noiseless 
laugh. Now he found his voice : 

“ You — you are Bertha Laycourt ?” 

“ I am. I also found one name to be entirely in- 
sufficient for all purposes ; so, like yourself, I borrowed 
another name, Mr. Warpole.” 

Now Harold, realizing the state of affairs, looked 
into the laughing eyes of Bertha. 

“ This is not the first time you have vanquished me,” 
he said. “ Then it is really you who stole my heart 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 327 

from myself and my betrothed wife? restore to her now 
that to which you have no rightful claim.” 

“ She has not yet demanded it of me,” returned Ber- 
tha. 

“ Keep it then,” said Harold ; “ dispose of it as you 
will, for it has gone beyond my control. Now, Bertha, 
I would know — but tell me, when did you first learn 
my real name ?” 

“ The other evening at Esther’s home, when you 
yourself told me.” 

“ And you listened to my story, known by yourself 
no less than by me, and withheld your own secret ?” 

“ Should I have been both culprit and confessor in a 
day ?” 

“ The fault was mine, in making you my judge ; but, 
having done so, I shall not release you from your duties 
until you decide another important matter. Would 
you know my errand, Bertha ? I come to ask your con- 
sent to my marriage with Lucy Berrill. It was she 
who sent me to you. Now your answer, my own Ber- 
tha !” 

“ Shall I speak for Lucy or for Bertha ?” she mur- 
mured. 

“ For Bertha ; Lucy is a wicked deceiver ; or speak 
for both. You are silent, you speak for neither ; yet 
words cannot convey the answer interpreted by my 
heart. I hold your hand, to release it never ; for you 
are mine, my Lucy and my Bertha.” 

Raising her drooping head, he covered her burning 
face with kisses. Then, taking her hand, he led her to 
the sofa, upon which they seated themselves. 

“ Bertha,” he said, “ do you recall the day we stood 
together on the ship that bore me from you? I vowed 
then to devote my energies to one great purpose. 
When other memories of the past will have been oblit- 
erated, that vow, solemnized by the seal of time, will 
ever remain. The boy’s purpose has become the guid- 
ing motive of the man.” 

“ And is N that all you remember of that time ?” 

As she spoke, she laid her hand upon a locket, de- 
pending from a light chain, which he had not observed 


328 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


■until then. He recognized the gift which be had given 
her at that time, and in the locket beheld the young 
donor. Harold clasped the locket and the hand which 
extended it to him for his inspection. 

“ Now, Bertha, where are your speaking emblems ? 
Look. -Have you ever seen the skies so serene as now, 
the moon so lustrous ? Behold the trees, your faithful 
confidants ; list to their songs, delightful recitations of 
the past, bright auguries of the future. Can we not 
approach the future, trustful that its mystic shadows 
screen from us now but images of light ?” 

“ How, looking at the present and the past, can we 
fear the future ? The same Hand will sustain us ; the 
same Power will guide us still.” 

“ Yes, Bertha. I see our path, a verdant vale be- 
tween two hills of roses, with here and there a budding 
branch extending, the sole impediments which we may 
encounter. Our course is not uncertain.” 

“ Lead onward where you will, I will be ever at 
your side.” 

Harold, bending forward, pressed a kiss upon the 
lips that uttered these words. Holding her hand, he 
conducted her to the presence of their relatives, whose 
expressions require no repetition to render them sincere. 

“ Now, my children,” said Mr. Berwood, after the 
lapse of some time, “ you have doubtless reviewed some 
of the past; yet it can do no harm to recapitulate. 
You observe, your course has been sufficiently strange 
to justify comment ; for had you allowed the original 
engagement to subsist, you would not have found oc- 
casion to recover it by pursuing fitful shadows. Had 
you, Harold, come home upon your first arrival, as it 
was your duty to do, certain correspondence would not 
have passed between us. And, as for you, Mrs. Ber- 
wood, hereafter when you find it necessary to disguise 
yourself, make the disguise complete. I shall always 

regret that I did not visit N last season and meet 

Miss Berrilland Mr. Warpole. The situation, I think, 
would not have been entirely devoid of interest or in- 
struction.” 

It was, of course, agreed that Louis Laycourt’s con- 


BERTHA LAY COURT 


329 


sent was essential to the subsistence of the engage- 
ment. no one doubting for a moment his readiness to 
do what was expected of him. 

Next day Esther called, eager to learn the outcome, 
and from Bertha she learned what had transpired. 

After her, one of the earliest callers upon Bertha 
was Bessie Harnold, accompanied by Boger Girdon, 
who, when he first suggested to Bessie the propriety 
of calling, found her averse to the project, by reason 
of the difference in wealth and social standing between 
the two houses. Notwithstanding her refusal, Boger 
perceived that she really desired to go, especially after 
he related to her the history of the engagement broken 
and renewed, when he could no longer, if he would, 
have restrained her from going. 

She was delighted with her reception by Bertha, 
and found no difficulty to win her friendship. She 
spent the evening there j and, before leaving ; obtained 
the promise of a return visit from Bertha ; and, yield- 
ing to the latter’s invitation, promised to call thereafter 
frequently upon her. 

A week later, Louis Laycourt returned, and was in- 
formed upon the condition of affairs. He had never 
seen Harold before his introduction to him at this time, 
but would not venture to question, by his own inter- 
ference, his father’s right to direct Bertha’s life in the 
future, as he had done in the past. Moreover, he 
questioned Bertha closely upon the matter, and, after 
learning from her so much of the truth as her lips 
would impart and the means by which the result now 
witnessed had been attained, he was more than pleased. 

As the day set for Bertha’s marriage drew near, she 
wrote to the Bedstones lengthy and affectionate letters, 
in which she entreated them to come by all means. 
They came: Mr. and Mrs. Peter Bedstone, and Jona- 
than, who brought with him his wife, a pretty young 
woman, the weight of whose head was perceptibly in- 
creased by a pair of light ear-rings, suspended from 
her ears. 

Bertha had informed them in her letters of her 
father’s return and presence, and Mrs. Bedstone was 
28 * 


330 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


very anxious to see him. In turn, he had not for- 
gotten the service which she had rendered him, and 
heartily desired to see the benefactress of his child. 

Mr. Laycourt invited them to remain at his home 
during their presence in the city, although nothing but 
his desire to please Bertha could have induced him to 
do so, for Jonathan was never a favorite with him j 
and, in observance of Bertha’s unexpressed wish, in- 
sisted so earnestly upon their acceptance of his invita- 
tion, that they could not decline it. 

“ I told you we wouldn’t be able to stay anywhere 
else after my old friend Laycourt got sight of me,” re- 
marked Jonathan to his wife, when they were alone 
in the comfortable quarters assigned them. 

“ I did not know that you were so intimate with 
him,” replied his wife, gratified beyond measure to ob- 
serve the amicable relationship subsisting. 

“ Mo, I never care to brag about such matters,” re- 
turned Jonathan. “ By and by, I’ll introduce you to 
some more of my old friends here.” And he winked 
significantly. 

Then his wife delayed no longer to expatiate upon 
the merits ascribed to the family entertaining her, and 
her exaggeratory comments were received by her hus- 
band with a modest approval. 

“ I told you so,” he said. “ You know, I raised that 
girl. I took care of her from the time she was a baby 
until I went West, and you ought to have seen her cry 
to see me go. Didn’t she, mother ?” 

Mrs. Ledstone, who fortunately entered the room 
just in time to know that she was addressed, answered 
yes. 

“ And she liked me better than her own parents or 
mine, and they knew it,” continued Jonathan. 

“ Yes, she always liked you best,” said his mother. 
“ She does yet.” 

This assertion, being made in his wife’s hearing, was 
very pleasing to Jonathan, as was evidenced by the 
complacent smile with which he stroked his beard. 

The family did all in its power to make the visitors 
feel at home. These efforts were superfluous so far as 


BERTHA LAY COURT. 


331 


concerned Jonathan, who could have felt no more at 
home if he had owned the house and the adjacent 
premises. But his wife and parents labored under some 
constraint ; and several times during the first days of 
their visit, Bertha deemed it incumbent upon her to go 
to Mrs. Bedstone’s room and conduct her to the family 
sitting-room. 

Some days later, in response to Bertha’s pressing in- 
vitations, Myrtle arrived, and Bertha felt overjoyed at 
the change for the better in her. Myrtle was in good 
health and in comparatively good spirits. 

In due course of time, the wedding took place, and 
among the guests were Mr. and Mrs. Prossert and Mr. 
and Mrs. Girdon. 

When Louis Laycourt visited the home of Mrs. 
Harold Berwood, after her return with her husband 
from Europe, he was reminded more strongly than 
ever of his own married life ; more than ever he recog- 
nized, through Bertha’s fulfilment of her new respon- 
sibilities, the true descendant of the young wife, who, 
while sharing his grievous burdens, was oblivious of 
their existence. These thoughts, which revived within 
him for a time a feeling of sadness, eventually tended 
to reconcile him to his great loss, like the balm that 
stings before it soothes. 

After Harold’s return from his wedding tour, he en- 
tered actively upon the execution of his literary de- 
sign ; and, after most careful preparation, he caused 
his book of travels to be published, with a result which 
left no doubt concerning his future vocation and pros- 
pects. 

He continued to reside with his wife in the home 
presented by his father ; but, visiting Mr. Laycourt one 
day, the conversation that passed between them led to 
a change of domicile. 

“ Harold,” said Mr. Laycourt to him on this occa- 
sion, “you have deprived me of more than another can 
restore. You do not know what you have taken from 
me, nor did I know how much I lost when I parted 
with the companion of my old age.” 

“ You know well that we welcome you in our home 


332 


BERTHA LAYCOURT. 


as heartily as we meet each other. Why will you dis- 
regard our appeals ? Come, live with us. My Bertha 
has not changed, unless it is possible for her to be 
better than she was. Your Bertha is the same. The 
debt which I owe you would of itself render abortive 
a thought to make your loss my gain. Then come ; 
for Bertha’s heart is larger than her home, and in it 
there is ample place for all.” 

“ No consideration could have prompted me to re- 
fuse other than the thought that to you is due her con- 
stant faithfulness and attention, rights so long enjoyed 
by me. But, if you believe, as I do, that a devoted wife 
may still he an attentive granddaughter ” 

“More than that; I believe that she cannot be one 
without being the other. Believe my assurance, a 
riddle though it seem : although you gave me all the 
world, you still retain it.” 

“ Then consider well what I have to propose, — a plan 
contemplated with no less longing by my son than by 
myself. Make this your home. Even as it is, Bertha 
spends here much of the time that her father and my- 
self are not at your home. You will but enter sooner 
the house which will one day be your own.” 

When this proposition was repeated to Mrs. Ber- 
wood, she urged its acceptance so eagerly upon her 
husband, that, had he entertained any objections, they 
would have remained unexpressed ; and once more 
Bertha was in the home of her childhood, foregoing no 
duty that she claimed to be her privilege as of old. 

“ I will never, never leave you again, grandpapa,” 
she said. 

And she redeemed her promise ; for, from that happy 
home, to the ranks of the inevitable host, he was the 
first deserter. 


THE END. 








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^ INDIANA 



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